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Irs. Barr’s 


Ledger' Library,’ 
I No. 53. ' 


Short Stories 

WITH CHOICE ILLUSTRATIONS. 





THE LEDGER LIBRARY 


G.— ! 

7. 

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53. — MRS. BARR’S SHORT STORIES. 

By Amelia E. Barr. Cloth. SI. 


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• • • 

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MRS. BARR’S SHORT STORIES. 


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4 .^ 


MRS. BARR’S SHORT STORIES 


BY 


/ 


AMELIA E. BARR, 

Author of The Beads of Tasmerf “A Sister to Esauf 
Love For Ati Hour Is Love Forever A Friend 

J s 

Olivia f Jan Vedder's Wifef “A Bow 
of Orange Ribbon f etc.y etc. 


WITH NUMEROUS CHOICE ILLUSTRATIONS. 



• NEwW: 


ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

PUBLISHERS. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY: ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 53, 
JANUARY 15j 1B92. ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N, Y., POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MAIL MATTER. 


AWi_ 


COPYRIGHT, 1870, 1871, 1872, 1873, 1876, 1877, 1878 and 1891, 
By ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. J 


(All rights reserved.) 



Femmetia’s Strange 
. Experience. 


PROLOGUE. 



HE story of Femmetia Vorhees is 
so far outside and beyond the gen- 
eral ideas of life, that any teller 
of it must necessarily feel as if 
they would desire to offer some 
personal gage for its likelihood 
to say, for instance : “ Impossi- 
ble as Femmetia’s experience 
seems, I myself have knowledge 
of at least two or more cases 
that are — if not parallel — at least very far in the 
same direction ; thus there is a famous living artist 
to whom this thing happened : 

He was busy one gloomy, winter day on a picture 
for the academy, and he worked steadily for many 

[7] 



8 


Prologue. 


hours. Then, being sensible of the failure of that 
enthusiasm which is the genius of work, he laid 
down his brush and stood a few moments looking at 
the results of his day’s labor. It pleased him. He 
had already attained success ; but he felt that this 
work was not only sure of appreciation, but that it 
deserved it. A sentiment of gratitude for the many 
great blessings of his life rose like a joyful song in 
his heart. For he knew that there were few studios 
in the world so perfectly appointed as his own, few 
homes so beautiful, few husbands and fathers so 
happy. 

Suddenly he seemed to lose his grasp upon his 
will and consciousness ; there was a momentary 
darkness and void, and he was in a strange city 
which yet was a familiar city. The old, high-gabled 
houses, the chiming of the carillons from the steeples 
of the churches, the queer costumes of the crowds 
around the ancient stone cross in the market-place ; 
he knew them, and he passed through them like a 
shade, straight up endless stairs to a wretched attic, 
where there was a large, ambitious painting on a 
rude easel. He was familiar with every line of that 
painting ; he understood now, as he stood before it, 
all its weak points, and why failure and only failure 
had been the lot of the artist. 

With a feeling of divine pity he turned to a 
pallet in the corner of the room. A man, still 
young, was dying there ; dying of defeated hopes 
and futile effort, and intense, ungratified feelings. 
The next moment, with a slight shiver of the fleshy 
tunicle, his soul returned to him, and he opened his 


9 


Prologue, 


eyes in his own splendid studio. They fell upon the 
picture he had been at work upon— an identical pic- 
ture in subject and conception, but worked out with 
an immeasurably greater breadth of power and 
technical ability ; and he knew beyond a doubt that his 
soul had gone back a moment to its last life ; that 
what he had witnessed was not death but transition ; 
that the Great Master had said : “ You have done 
all possible in this class, pass through that door 
called ‘ death,’ to a higher room.” 

He stood up reverently. He had received no ordi- 
nary lesson. Henceforward, his art was a sacred 
thing ; it was the key to an eternal progress. Not 
for any gold could he debase a line ; not for any 
fame hinder that “ well done, good and faithful ser- 
vant ” which from that hour has been the hope and 
the aim of all his labor. 

Again, in the closest personal way, I have knowl- 
edge of a child who, before three years of age, had 
distinct and awful dreams of being bitten by a huge 
serpent, though it was beyond all possibility that in this 
life she had ever seen at that time even a pictured 
creature of the kind ; always the same dream of the 
sandy plain, and the bare rocks, and the long gliding 
reptile, that had no feet. When six years old, she 
was taken, one day, to Wombwell’s Menagerie, and 
there, in a speechless paroxysm of terror, she 
pointed out the creature which had impressed her 
soul with such supreme terror that the wondrous act 
of transition had not been able to efface the mem- 
ory of it. And if such events as these, and others 
quite as remarkable, come within the positive expe 


lO 


Prologue, 


rience of one person, it is hardly possible that such 
experience is peculiar. It is, indeed, far more likely 
that the story of Femmetia Vorhees will appeal to 
the majority of intelligences by the very reason of 
some personal knowledge of cases not dissimilar. 



CHAPTER I. 

FEMMETIA. 

Femmetia Vorhees was born in the year seven- 
teen hundred and fifty-seven, at the Vorhees coun- 
try-house on the North River, near Lispenard 
street. New York. Her father and mother were of 
pure Dutch stock, the latter, Hildegonde Van Twil- 
ler, being a descendant of the Van T wilier who, as 
Governor-General of New Amsterdam, led the way 
into the Connecticut Valley, and built a fortified 
post there, called the House of Good Hope, near the 
present town of Hartford. She was a Dutch lady 
of the most marked character, and when she married 
Claes Vorhees she married a man of the same pur- 
ity of lineage and the same pronounced Dutch 
individuality as her own. Claes was a trader, and 
proud of his abilities in that direction. His store 
on the Great Dock of the East River was a famous 
resort for country merchants, and his house on the 
North River was the embodiment of all that went 
to make a typical Dutch household of that day. 

• For Claes was not only a trader ; he was, also, a 
member of the classis of the Dutch kirke, and had 
his seat among the elders on the right hand of the 
minister. Besides which, he was one of the town 

[II] 


12 


Mrs. Barr s Short Stories. 


council, and universally regarded as a safe and sure 
citizen. He was a large man, with a blank expres- 
sion of face, which, however, concealed a deal of 
shrewd business intelligence, square-built, and 
rather fond of fine clothing, a taste shared by his 
wife Hildegonde, who was a woman pretty and 
ample, and very stirring about her domestic affairs 
She had three sons, who were older than Femmetia, 
all of them shy youths, without any apparent indi- 
viduality to speak of. 

“ But they will do well enough,” said their father, 
frequently, to Madam Vorhees. “ The boys are slow. 
That is because there is yet nothing new to be done 
in our affairs. They will make themselves at home 
in the world in good time. Believe one who knows 
what goes on in the city.” 

It was the . little Femmetia who troubled and 
puzzled her parents. They looked at her when she 
could scarce talk and walk as something in their 
house outside natural laws, and at times listened to 
her strange prattle with a feeling curiously blended 
of love, admiration and dislike. 

“ And what will come of it, even the domine does 
not know,” said madam, one night. “ Such strange 
questions ! Claes, I feel as frightened to-day as I used 
to feel when I was a little girl, and could not say 
my Heidelberg.” 

“ Questions ! What then ?” 

“ Well, look now ! it is — ‘ Mother, where do my 
dreams come from ?’ And then again : ‘ Where 

do they go to?’ ‘Mother, where did Femmetia 
come from ?’ ‘ How do I grow bigger and bigger ?’ 


F emmetia. 


13 


‘ How many Femmetias are there in me ?’ ‘ One 
Femmetia is here with you, and another Femmetia 
is with my aunt Gertrude in Pearl street, and 
another with my good father in the store, and I send 
another to Schoon - Durven ?’ As for Schoon- 
Durven, I never heard any mention of the place 
before ; no, nor you either, Claes ; nor yet anybody 
round here. It is no good for her, nor for us — such 
talk.” 

“ Then 1 take leave to say, you are not doing right 
to let her talk in such a way. Say to her : ‘ Fem- 
metia, I am not satisfied with you. I set you a good 
example, and you are conceited and troublesome, 
and make up questions that are not in your cate- 
chism, nor yet in the Holy Scriptures. Think that 
your little body is the work of the Lord, and knit 
your stocking like a respectable girl, whose father is 
in the classis and in the town council, and a man 
honored, and of some wealth, thank God !’ Such 
things as that is what you ought to say to her.” 

“Very well, Claes ; and she will listen, and then 
lift her big eyes, and answer me in this way : ‘ When 
I lived at Schoon- Durven, no one was cross to me. 
There were ladies in flowered silks there, and glass- 
houses full of flowers, and all the servants who waited 
wore scarlet waistcoats.' And suppose I get angry, 
and say: ‘ Femmetia, I will tell you what that means 
in plain Dutch — it means lies !’ She looks offended 
then, and is like to cry, or she says calmly : ‘ Mijn 
moeder^ how can you tell } This happened before 
I came to live with you.’ And so, Claes, I know 
no more what to say. But as for Schoon- Durven, 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


H 


it must be in Dreamland, I am sure, and nowhere 
else in this world.” 

“That is what I think, Hildegonde. It is in 
Dreamland. Queer things happen there, I have 
heard tell. As for me, I dream not ; it is not my 
business. Dreams — as you may tell by what Fem- 
metia says — are about other people’s ; and it is a 
fixed principle with me never to meddle with the 
affairs of other people.” 

It was at this moment Femmetia entered the room. 
She came in from school, with her small text-books 
in her hand, and her lovely face flushed with anger. 

“ Peter Martense called me a little angel, mother ; 
and my own brother Adrian laughed at him, and 
said that it was the boys only who had no sisters 
who thought girls were angels.” 

“ I shall punish Adrian,” said the father, quickly ; 
“but listen to me, Femmetia. We shall have no 
more dreaming, nor any more dream-talk. Think 
that you were baptized a Christian, in the Garden- 
street kirke, and that when you go to your bed, and 
lay you down with your good prayers on your lips, 
it is that you may go to sound sleep ; and so be fit 
for the lessons and the work of the next day — it is 
not that you should think or dream of ladies in flow- 
ered silks and servants in scarlet waistcoats. That 
is folly ; and tolly is a thing God is angry at, every 
day. Besides, you may read in your Bible that follies 
end in ruin ; and St. Paul says that children must 
never vex their parents ! This is the truth ; and 
you must dream no more by night or day. A good 
girl who has to go to school, and help her mother at 


Femmetia, 


^5 


home, should not dream. I am a respectable mer- 
chant, and an elder in the kirke, and I never dream !’’ 

And Claes Vorhees spoke the truth, as he under- 
stood it. As far as he was concerned, his sleep was 
the sleep of mere flesh and blood ; and no winged 
dream ever came to inform it. And if Madam Vor- 
hees dreamed, it was only of her half-done household 
tasks ; and she rightly enough concluded that she 
had not been in a sleep sound enough to make her 
oblivious of her daily cares. But it was very differ 
ent with Femmetia. She lived a real dream-life ; a 
life quite distinct from her waking existence ; though 
after this unusual and severe reproof from her father 
she was extremely reticent on the subject. 

And, as the years went by, daily custom brought 
that weight which lies upon childhood’s intuitions 
like a frost. The nature that remembered what 
was so fugitive : 

“ Those shadowy recollections, 

Those obstinate questions,” 

those 

“ Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized,” 

began to be less sensitive ; and to shape itself more 
and more to the dream of a human life. Her les- 
sons, her dresses, her companions, her first com- 
munion, the methodical certainties and duties of a 
Dutch household, filled her heart. All our births 
“are a sleep, and a forgetting.” All our souls 


i6 


Mrs. Barr s Short Stories, 


“ rise with us like a star, that had elsewhere its set- 
ting, and cometh from afar, not in entire forgetful- 
ness or in utter nakedness.” But Femmetia’s soul 
had a more than ordinary memory ; she kept her 
heritage longer, the seeing eye among the blind, 
the brooding thought of immortality, the sense of 
presence not to be put away, convictions, which 
many toil all their lives to arrive at — only as she 
grew older she kept all those things, more and 
more closely, within her own consciousness. 

And this unspoken confidence with her nobler 
part influenced the fleshly form. Her eyes were 
mystical, large, slow-moving ; her face still, and 
rather grave ; all her movements were leisurely ; 
and she rarely laughed. Pleasure, love, or any 
strong feeling was shown by a quick brightening 
of her whole countenance ; as if the flesh itself sud- 
denly became luminous. 

So the days and years went by, and she was six- 
teen ; partly child, partly woman, and partly spirit ; 
and it was on her birthday she had the first of those 
experiences, which were perhaps the legitimate con- 
clusion, to which all the dim, half-forgotten, half- 
perceived intimations of her soul-life had been fore- 
shadowings. 

She had gone to rest with a piece of news in her 
ears which, though not unusual or unexpected, had 
affected her with unusual and unexpected emotions 
The house next to the Vorhees house was occupied 
by a Dutch gentleman called Volckmaar, whose son 
Denyse had been many years in Holland with his 
grandparents. The Holland Volckraaars were gen- 


Femmetia. 


17 


erally supposed to be people of very great wealth 
and importance, and the impassive stolidity and 
silence of Cornelius Volckmaar on the subject 
seemed to give assurance of the fact. It was also 
very unlikely that Cornelius would permit his only 
son to remain away for years unless there was some 
very tangible good in gold or land to be obtained 
by his self-denial. 

“ For my part,” said Claes Vorhees frequently to 
madam, his wife — “ for my part, I am sure it is gold 
and not learning that keeps Denyse Volckmaar in 
Holland. Councilor Volckmaar is a man who 
neglects not the main chance. It is right to be so 
prudent, and as for piety and wisdom, )^ou could not 
get in a church more than is in the life of Cornelius 
Volckmaar.” 

But at last Denyse Volckmaar had come to his 
home again. Claes had heard the news from the 
youth’s father. All afternoon they had been 
together and never a word of it, but at the last 
moment, as they leaned on Claes’s garden gate and 
admired his tulips, Cornelius had spoken thus : 

My son Denyse came home on The Sea Beggar. 
He brought with him some tulips ; it is thought new 
and rare ones.” 

“ Mean you it ? A fine young man he will be 
now.” 

“You say what is true. He is from Leyden, with 
many honors. Ah, my beautiful Leyden !” 

“ Well, well, that is so. But as for me and my 
boys, we do not snifter after Holland. We have all 
taken suck from the breasts of this good land, and 


i8 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


the better of it we think ourselves — indeed yes, 
councilor.” 

“ There is no harm said, neighbor. The vaderland 
is my own land. In Holland I myself was born.” 

Then the flicker of light which his son’s name 
had called into his face died out, and with a solemn 
nod he went onward to his own gate. 

The news did not stay long with Claes. He was 
fond of talk, and he felt his cup of tea to be 
improved in flavor by his Hildegonde’s exclama- 
tions and wonderments and his Femmetia’s memo- 
ries and speculations. Femmetia was, indeed, 
unable to forget Denyse, now that he had suddenly 
been brought into her life again. Ten years ago 
they had been very close friends. She had confided 
to him all her recollections of Schoon-Durven, and 
also many a strange and half-caught intimation. 
Would he remember ? Would he speak to her now 
of such things ? She hoped not. A man who had 
been through the college of Leyden must be too 
wise for this world’s knowledge to care for intima- 
tions. He would want to know^ and to have proof 
that he dtd kn<nv. She went to sleep thinking of 
these things, and as soon as her body was helpless 
and unconscious away went her soul on its own 
affairs. 

It went far away, to a house standing on a natural 
hill facing the Zuyder Zee— an old house rising 
among many red gables, and girt about with a 
lavish greenery of gardens and a sloping lawn, and 
at the foot of the hill great salt marshes stretching 
away to the salt waves. And she saw on a kind of 


Femmetia, 


19 


balcony, a man who was walking restlessly about. 
He looked at the sea as if he hated it ; and watched 
it ; and knew it to be a treacherous creature who 
could not be trusted. 

This look of doubt and suspicion deepened and 
darkened as she went toward him ; and as he led 
her up stairs and stairs, to the topmost room in the 
tower. Heavy were her feet, climbing and climb- 
ing, till they reached at last a low room with a large 
bay-window looking seaward, and a door, made 
strong, to bear the great winds that came from the 
Northern Ocean. With a swift, noiseless motion, 
the door shut and she was alone with her fate. 

Who does not know the possibilities of infinite 
anguish that are in dreams. Real life has nothing 
comparable to the sense of loss, of remorse, of ter- 
ror, of actual pain, which the soul can endure in 
dreams. Out of that room Femmetia’s soul fled, 
trembling and shivering, coming back to her with a 
shock like that with which a mortal fleeing before 
some infuriated beast reaches, at the last gasp, the 
shelter of his own home, and clashes behind him 
the door of his salvation. Femmetia came to her- 
self with such a clash and shock, her eyes wide open 
with terror, her face gray as ashes, her clothing 
drenched with the sweat of her mortal agony. 

She ran to the window, flung it open, and let the 
west wind coming across the river and the garden 
blow in her face. There she knelt with her head 
on the window-sill, resting like a creature who had 
been run to death. And by and by she wept a lit- 
tle, and afterwards she began to pray. Her mother 


20 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


broke her prayer in tv/o by an imperative call. The 
breakfast was waiting, and Madam Vorhees was 
always angry at those who delayed it, making 
behind-hand the whole day.” 

For once this consideration had little weight with 
Fenimetia. She could not hurry. Her hands trem- 
bled ; she put her garments on wrong, she dressed 
herself as people dress in troubled dream ; finding 
and losing, and doing all things wrong, or twice 
over. She expected to be sharply reproved, and 
somehow she did not fear reproof. This unavoid- 
able indifference acted like ice upon madam’s anger ; 
it compelled her to look into her daughter’s face, 
and there were on it yet the dread and gleam of 
that awful passage of the night. 

Are you sick, then, Femmetia ?” she asked 
gently. 

moeder ! I have seen a murder this night.” 

“ In God's Naam !" 

“ A young woman — cruelly murdered — and it was 
/, I myself 

Then madam went into a sudden passion ; for it 
is natural to deny what we cannot comprehend. 

'‘'•Dreams!" Dreams ! In God's Naam 

what is it you want ? This waking life is not good 
enough for you ? To have such a daughter ! I am 
a most miserable woman ! All the neighbors will 
laugh at me ; they will say again : '• Poor Hilde- 
gonde Vorhees ! She has a daughter who is pos- 
sessed.’ If in Boston you was living, for a witch 
they would burn you. That is so.” 

A witch I am not ! I am a miserable little maid 


Femmetia, 


21 


who was stabbed to death last night. The house, 
the man, the long, thin knife sharp at both edges, I 
saw them. On the floor I was kneeling ; over me 
stood the man, the knife entered my heart — cut 
straight through until the blade passed beyond. I 
felt the agony of it. Mijn moeder^ pity me !” 

Madam stood looking at her daughter, the cup 
and saucer in her hand rattling with the fear and 
anger evoked by this extraordinary complaint. The 
very apathy of Femmetia’s sufferings shocked her. 
For a minute, that seemed many minutes, both 
women were silent. The mother spoke first 

“ Drink your coffee, Femmetia, and go then into 
the garden. The smell of the fresh air and earth 
will be good for you. For the domine and the 
doctor I will send. In your soul or your body you 
are sick." 

“ For the domine and the doctor send. Out of 
what I have seen and suffered, can they talk or 
physic me ? No, mijn moeder j* 

Nothing is more powerful than positive suffering. 
Madam made no more opposition. She renewed 
her advice to take the fresh air, and was glad to 
escape the presence and influence of the supernat- 
ural which clung to her daughter. Femmetia 
watched her departure with that aching, longing 
gaze which love sends after whatever has failed it 
in its extremity. Then she drank her coffee and 
put on her hood and went into the garden. 

There had been rain, but the sun was shining 
brightly, and the scent of the lilacs filled the cool, 
damp air. She stood still and let it blow all over 


22 


Mrs, Barr s Short Stories, 


her. It was an elixir to her fainting spirit. Every 
breath was full of life, and she sighed deeply, and 
filled her heart and brain with the sweet, fresh ele- 
ments. 

Suddenly she thought of Denyse, and she turned 
her face toward that side of the garden where 
the dividing wall ran lengthwise to the river. It 
was a stone wall, covered with vines, high, but not 
too high for love to pass, if love desired it. Many a 
time, when a lad, Denyse had clambered over, and 
sat talking with her of things far off and mysterious ; 
for all good children have that longing to go beyond-, 
which is the heavenly light yet lying about their 
infancy. 

Denyse was standing watching her. He was 
willing her to look toward him, and she answered 
his desire. As she did so he put his hand on the 
wall and threw himself easily over it. The boy 
had become a man — a pleasant-looking man, neither 
short nor tall, neither fair nor dark, but straight 
and well-knit, with eyes full of light as a cup may 
be full of wine. 

She would have hastened to meet him, but 
something restrained her — an innate modesty, a 
shy love, which was just revealing its unsuspected 
presence. It was easier to stand still under the 
blossoming trees and wait for his approach. How 
young and fresh and sweet she was ! Not, indeed 
beautiful, as physical beauty is rated. It took 
something nobler than the mere lust of the flesh to 
see the loveliness of her broad white brows, and the 
charm of eyes like wood-violets and full of spiritual 


Femmetia. 


23 


light. Many people did not think Femmetia was at 
all pretty. 

To Denyse, whose soul had long ago found her 
soul, she was the one woman on earth desirable. 
He came swiftly to her, so forgetful of himself, so 
absorbed in Femmetia, that his rapid walk had all 
the grace of unconscious movement. He called her 
name, and he sent with the word one bright, glad 
flash of love. It seemed to Femmetia that all 
heaven and earth was in it. They clasped hands, 
they smiled, they leaned slightly forward ; ere they 
were aware they had kissed each other. 

“ Old love is a dangerous thing to touch.” The 
fire that had only been smoldering and quietly sub 
duing all to itself burst into a sudden flame. The 
great spaces in Femmetia’s eyes were full of a soft- 
blue light that charmed his very soul from him 
and lifted him higher than any selfish thought. 
Some love blows. 

Leaf by leaf, coming out like a rose 

but the love of Denyse and Femmetia was bom per- 
fect, and it swung into their lives as a planet full- 
orbed, at its appointed moment, rises above the 
horizon. 

They asked each other a hundred questions. They 
did not seem to feel that the answers were often 
irrelevant and broken and unfinished. Whatever 
words were spoken or unspoken were all part of a 
glorious fairy-tale. “The old sweet story?” Oh, 
no ! The youngs the fresh^ the ever new story ! The 


24 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


story that is always “ news ” to the heart ; the story 
of the bride and the bridegroom. 

Side by side, hand in hand, they walked in the 
garden ; and the trees rustled their blossoms above 
them, and the flowers perfumed the air around them 
and the birds made a musical accompaniment to 
their words and sighs and smiles and silences. And 
Madam Vorhees looked at them from her bay- 
window, that was full of geraniums, and said, com- 
placently, perhaps a little scornfully : 

“ Ach^ mijn kind ! Nature goes beyond all. I take 
leave to say the domine will not be wanted for the 
soul, nor yet the doctor for the body. The lover, 
for a young girl, is the best of all. Yes, yes, it is so ! 
Love and marriage ! And as to what comes after 
we must expect it.” 


CHAPTER II. 

It is not always that the course of true love runs 
crookedly or unhappily. Indeed, it is doubtful if 
true love ever makes for itself crooked or sorrowful 
ways. Much that is called “ true love ” is selfish 
love, and deserves to run adversely, and to bring 
forth sorrow. 

The love of Denyse and Femmetia had begun in 
childhood, and their long separation had provided 
that silence and mystery so favorable for the growth 
of great affections or great events. But now that 


Femmetia, 


25 


the full time had come for its blossoming, it did not 
need to hide, or to show itself secretly, or to affect 
danger where there was no danger, or exact for 
itself a false sympathy from false conditions. 
Denyse gloried in his love ; he cared not to make 
it secret. He spoke to Femmetia’s father for her 
hand, and to his own father for his assent and bless- 
ing, without any delay. The parents of the lovers 
were their confidants, and the friends of both fam- 
ilies knew the glad news, and rejoiced with them. 

If they went walking up the pretty unplanted 
places by the river bank, kind eyes followed them ; 
if they sauntered down Pearl street or sought the 
sea breezes on the Battery, or looked over the same 
hymn book in kirke, kind hearts blessed them 
silently ; and as for the envy and malice of the 
uncharitable, they knew it not, and it cavSt no 
shadow upon their love. Denyse commenced the 
study of law, and Femmetia was busy spinning the 
flax for her house-linen, and making up fine 
garments for her wedding and her wife-life. To 
both the Volckmaar and the Vorhees households 
love brought sunshine, and both were well con- 
tented. 

“ When Femmetia and Denyse are married,” said 
Madam Vorhees, “ we will take away the wall 
between us. A good thing that will be for us 
women. We shall have a way through the garden, 
and of our coming and going the neighbors can 
make neither much nor little.” 

“ A bad thing it will be, Hildegonde,” answered 


26 


Mrs. Barr s Short Stories. 


the wise elder. “ I say this : Your neighbor love : 
but the fence between you — ^leave it standing.” 

Well, then, a great wedding we will have, Claes. 
Every respectable person in the kirke we must 
invite. That will be looked for, and I am not 
opposed to it. Such stores of fine linen, such silk 
gowns and cloth mantles and Indian chintzes in one 
hand are not often seen. It is well to let one’s 
acquaintances know that we have grown rich with 
the years.” 

“ But some of our acquaintances have not grown 
rich with the years. There is poor Joris Brunt. 
This winter no overcoat has he.” 

“ It is very likely his own fault, Claes. Brunt is 
not religious. God would not have let him want an 
overcoat if he had been religious. I say so of my 
experience.” 

“ Well, well, then. A great wedding we will have. 
To that I have no objections.” 

And only once during this blessed season of love 
and hope did Femmetia have again the terrible 
experience which had heralded in, as it were, the 
peace and joy of her love life. But when it came 
she had no need to speak of it. Madam saw the 
horror and suffering on her face, and as soon as Fem- 
metia said drearily: “A bad night I have had, 
mother. I was dreaming of — ” she stopped her 
angrily, and said : 

“ Dreaming ! Yes, that is plain. But the wedding- 
cake is in the house, and the wedding-dress in the 
next room, and God's Wille ! evil words shall 
not be spoken nigh to them. And I say to you, 


Feinmetia. 


27 


speak nothing of this to Denyse. It is of this world, 
and for this world, a man wants his wife. Peter 
Rose who joined the Quakers, and who is now 
always seeing visions and dreaming dreams, had 
last week to take thirty-nine per cent, out of the 
estate of a bankrupt Jew. That is what comes of 
dreams, Femmetia !” 

“ It was the same dream, mother — the same house 
— the same knife — the same man — ” 

“ Be quiet ! Such a man, even in a dream, comes 
not out of heaven. Out of hell he crept when 
the devil was sleeping. You shall not speak under 
this roof of such bad things ! Here comes Joan 
Kipp with your new lawn petticoats, and they are 
to fit on, and ties on the mantle to alter — in a word, 
honest work enough for the morning. Last night I 
sent word to her to come, for I always think about 
everything. I fear we are to have a bad day, Fem- 
metia, for you have spoiled the comfort of my .break- 
fast.'* 

‘‘ Mother, do you think I tell you lies about this 
dreaming ? In the Bible are many dreams.” 

“ Lies ? No, no ! But the truth of that other 
world are lies and foolishness to this world. And it 
is in this world God has put you. Your father is a 
rich, respectable merchant, and a pious elder in the 
kirke, and his saying is always ‘ truth and common 
sense,' making of course an exception for the Holy 
Scriptures. In the Holy Scriptures there are dreams 
you say — ” 

Many strange dreams, mother.” 

“ That is so. But you are not in the Holy Scrip- 


28 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


tures. And I will talk no more to you about such 
things. In my house the Holy Scriptures shall be 
honored, and a young girl, who has a lover and a 
wedding on her mind, should not hide her follies in 
them. Be obedient, and love the good God and your 
good lover, and do not grieve them with complain- 
ing about your dreams.” 

So madam left the room. She had talked herself 
into anger, and there was no more to be said. And 
what could Femmetia do but just what all womeh.in 
all ages and countries have to do — ^hide her fears 
and suffering among smiles and pleasant words. 
Fortunately she had also one of those strong, 
womanly souls which are brave to meet even the 
weary vexation of daily life — its failures of Love 
that should not fail — its smallness and narrowness 
and unreasonableness. 

The wedding was not troubled with any untoward 
event ; it was, indeed, a wedding to satisfy every 
ambition of Hildegonde’s heart, and to triumphantly 
prove what she asserted she wished it to prove — 
that God so directs all things that if a man has the 
true religion, and knows how to manage his busi- 
ness, he will become wealthy ; and that if people are 
poor it is their own fault, since the Lord will not 
forsake a person who serves him faithfully ; and it 
never once struck Hildegonde that she was making 
a God after her own image and likeness and wor- 
shiping it. 

After the wedding Femmetia went to live with 
the Volckmaars, and the two families were as one, 
only Claes Vorhees and Cornelius Volckmaar did 


Fernmetia, 


29 


not pull down the wall between them. They often 
leaned upon it in the sweet summer evenings and 
smoked their long pipes, and talked about the oppres- 
sion of the English Parliament and of what was sure 
to come of it ; and in the winter nights Madam Vor- 
hees, folded in her wadded silk cloak, and accom- 
panied by Claes carrying a large lantern, went to 
the Volckmaars to drink chocolate and talk to her 
daughter and her friends ; for Madam Volckmaar 
was an invalid and had to be treated with considera- 
tion and many allowances made for her. 

So two years passed away, and the two fathers 
began to talk of building a house for the young 
lawyer and his wife. 

‘‘A small house, but a great deal of land to put it 
on, we will give them,** said Claes. The land will 
be growing rich, and they not thinking of it ; and 
when bigger the house is wanted they can add room 
by room, which is tbe best.” 

Cornelius was not sure of this assertion ; Denyse, 
as a young lawyer, must make an appearance of 
solidity, and Cornelius thought “ a good house was 
a good foundation for prosperity.” 

But while they were discussing this question at 
their leisure — as they both liked to do everything — 
there came a letter from Holland which put aside all 
their calculations. The grandfather of Denyse was 
dead, and all he possessed was left to his grandson 

“For that was my wish,” said Cornelius to his 
friend. “ Back to Holland I can go no more. My 
home, my sick wife, are here ; here, also, my dead 
daughters, my good business, my friends, my kirke 


30 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


— my whole heart. The ways of Holland, the wet 
climate — No, no ; I am now an American ; and very 
soon, I think, America will need all who love her to 
fight for her. I feel myself not too old to do this if 
occasion comes. But Denyse is different ; he nursed 
Leyden, and his mother’s voice is still in his ears.” 

Claes and Hildegonde were troubled and excited 
at the news. Femmetia was going to be a great 
lady, perhaps a countess. It was certain that 
Denyse would go to court, and that three fine houses 
with their estates were now his — a town-house in 
Amsterdam, a great farm in Zealand and a summer 
residence on the sea coast. But yet of all this 
grandeur they would see nothing, and their only 
daughter would be far away from their love and 
care. Hildegonde began to look wistfully at her 
child. She kissed her frequently, she busied herself 
about little affairs she thought Femmetia would like. 
Now, if Femmetia had desired to talk of her tragic 
dream, or of any other dream, madam would have 
listened gladly. She longed for something to bring 
them close together, to give her an opportunity to 
lay her daughter’s head on her breast and pet and 
comfort her. 

But, oh, how very seldom lost opportunities ever 
come back ! Femmetia was herself very much 
excited at the great change, and Denyse talked to 
her continually of the fine old cities she was going to 
see, and the strange, grand life she was going to 
lead- There was a kind of haste, also, in all their 
proceedings, so that in less than a month the worry 
and the hurry were all past, and Fernmetia and her 


Femmetia. 


31 


young- husband had sailed into the East after their 
destiny. 

“ Good or bad, for a little while we shall have to 
be subject to it,” said Denyse ; “ for there are great 
properties at stake ; but if we like it not, Femmetia, 
then back to New York we will go, as soon as I can 
turn land and houses into gold.” 

This feeling of freedom made the change lighter 
to all. Nothing that was new was final ; they were 
still masters of their own fate. They went first to 
Amsterdam, and the winter being at hand, they spent 
it there. Early in the spring, Denyse had some busi- 
ness in Paris, and Femmetia went with him. They 
were very gay while in the gay city ; and, therefore, 
when they turned their faces northward, and a sud- 
den solemnity settled upon Femmetia, it was the 
more remarkable. She could not rise above it ; she 
could not cast it from her. It was no sense of fear, 
not even that nameless dejection which may be an 
accident of the nervous condition. It was a real 
feeling of gloom, a strange, pitiful sensation, that 
had no perceptible object ; a melancholy she could 
not talk about ; an apprehension without thinkable 
reason for it. 

Denyse was sure she was sick. 

“ No.” 

“ Tired ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Fretting for America ?” 

“ No.” 

Finally he touched upon a subject they had not 
talked much of since their life in Europe. Had she 


32 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


dreamed anything that terrified her or even puzzled 
her? 

For a moment Femmetia had a temptation to tell 
her husband of the two fearful visions that had 
visited her — one on the very night previous to their 
meeting after his return from Holland ; the other 
just before their marriage-day. But the desire van- 
ished even as it formed itself. The dream had 
come no more. Speaking of it might summon it 
again. And she had suffered on each occasion all — 
perhaps much more — than she would actually have 
suffered had the attack been real, instead of a vision- 
ary one. She shuddered yet at the memory, and 
she could not bring herself to discuss — at least at 
that hour — the shadowy tragedy. 

When they reached Amsterdam on their return 
from Paris, the weather was warm. A languorous 
fever attacked Femmetia ; she began to think long- 
ingly of the great spaces of the ocean, and of the 
cool winds that in New York swept down the North 
River or across the pleasant Battery. 

“ To Zealand we will go,” said Denyse, one hot 
day. “ On the very sea-shore, we have there a home. 
My lawyer will tell me the best way to reach it, 
Femmetia ; and then, my beloved, the northwest 
wind — the wind of God — shall blow about us, and 
we shall be strong and full of spirit again. For 
myself, also, I wish it. I am weary and much 
depressed.” 

He was not many hours in finding out all he 
de*sired, and in engaging the necessary transport to 


KEYING FOE MONEY.— /See Page 48 







F'enimetia, 


33 


the place of their destination. His spirits rose with 
every mile northward. 

“ A ravishing account of the place, Poupet, my 
lawyer, gives me,” he said. “ My great-grandfather 
built it. A sailor he was, and fond of the sea. Ser- 
vants are there, and the house is in fair order. For 
a few months we shall find there rest and quiet 
without too much quiet, for there is a village not a 
mile distant.” 

They traveled slowly, and at the close of the 
fourth day reached Schoon-Havard, the little vil- 
lage to which they were bound. It was then nearly 
dark, but they hurried forward, for another mile 
would bring them to their home. And long before 
it was passed, they saw the lights lit to welcome 
them. Curiously they both peered out of the 
carriage-windows at the pile of brick they were 
approaching. In the blackness outside, nothing was 
perceptible but the long, narrow windows, and the 
high-pitched roofs. 

But the entrance was noble and well lighted, 
resplendent with white marble and glorious with 
the carved wood-work of Nuremburg. And the 
walls of the room they entered were finely painted 
in landscape, while the cornices showed the hand of 
no mean artist. 

“ A good taste had my grandfather,” said Denyse^ 
*‘and to-morrow we will see if there is any portrait 
of him in this ‘ Pleasure House.’ To stand before 
it and say, I thank you !’ would be a great satis- 
faction to me.” 

Femmetia smiled a reply. She was in that condi- 


34 


Mrs. Barr^s Short Stories. 


tion which demands from the mind a constant 
assurance of wakefulness, and that all that is said is 
not said at an inconceivable distance away, and all 
that is done is not phantasm. But she really was 
eating and drinking ; the supper was excellent, and 
the queer old man who served it was an actuality. 

He said the chamber above the room in which 
they eat had been prepared for their use, and Fem- 
me tia made haste to reach it. Piece by piece she 
examined the furniture ; never before in her life 
had she seen anything similar, and yet in the room 
there was a sense of familiarity which teased and 
annoyed her. 

Not even in my dreams have I been here,” she 
said, positively, “ and even if I have, why should it 
annoy me ? Oh, how merciful is God to those whom 
He permits to forget T 

With the words, she went to the casement and 
stood there. Nothing but undistinguishable masses 
of foliage could be seen ; no color or form, no linea- 
ment of landscape for her eye to seize. But she 
heard the roaring of the sea ; the dull, heavy break, 
break, in the darkness ; and she remembered that 
fateful, mournful sound at once. Just that same 
lamenting noise had filled her ears in that miserable 
dream of her own slaying. It had blended with the 
voice of the murderer and the touch of the knife, 
and gone out of life with her. 

The thing that amazed her was that, with this 
conviction, came a sense of elation. Fear and 
anguish were gone. She felt as a strong soul feels 
when at last it is brought face to face with whatever 


Femmetia, 


35 


it has to do. A curiosity, that had nothing puerile 
or vulgar in it, kept her awake. The noise of the 
sea in the still house was like a voice. Long ago 
she had been used to lying awake at midnight and 
listening thus to the mournful sound. Hour after 
hour, she was still and speechless, while forgotten 
things called to her ; but toward dawning she fell 
asleep, and when she opened her eyes, the brightest 
sunshine was shining everywhere ; the birds were 
twittering in the ivy, the cows lowing in the pas- 
tures, and the cries of the husbandmen to the horses 
were pleasantly audible. The voice of' the sea was 
almost gone ; she could scarcely hear it for the 
multitudinous stir and song of life. 

She dressed cheerfully, she put on one of her 
gayest morning gowns, she chatted to Denyse of its 
trimmings and of the pretty breakfast china, and of 
what a strange, happy voyage of discovery they 
would go on through the house and garden. 

It is just like what we used to fancy when we 
were little children,” she said. Oh, Denyse, my 
beloved, if we could only have remained children 
forever, and forever, and forevermore !” 

“ Not so delightful would it have been, as having 
you for my wife ; and we could not have known 
the worth of these fine paintings and carvings. I 
saw a Friesland cuckoo clock in the hall whose 
silver call and wonderful case is a little fortune. 
Come, let us make haste to count up our beautiful 
things.” 

The first room they entered was a large parlor on 
the opposite side of the hall. It had evidently been 


3 ^ 


Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


the principal dining-room, for it was furnished with 
black-oak sideboards, and chairs covered with 
embossed Spanish leather which still kept the gleam 
of its fine gold outlining. Femmetia saw only one 
thing in the room — the portrait of the builder of the 
house, Denyse’s great-grandfather. It was the 
portrait of the man who had slain her. A great 
weight fell from her heart. He had been dead 
many years. He could not hurt her now. She was 
singularly calm. All the restless, feverish anxiety, 
all the inexplicable mental pressure which had 
fretted and sickened her, went away in a moment. 
It had been there ; it was gone. She touched her 
husband, and said : 

“ Denyse, shut the door. Let us sit down here^ 
I have something to tell you.” 

“ What, then, is to say ? I am sure that is the 
face of my great-grandfather — he who built us this 
house. What think you of it ?” 

“ What I think of it is the thing I wish to tell 
you. Listen, my husband : Mijn Jongen I Twice 
in my life that man hath slain me.” 

Then she repeated, with every thrilling detail, 
the suffering he had caused her. Denyse listened 
with all the sympathy she could have desired. It 
produced in her a livifig recollection. The sense of 
weariness, even of life — the stillness of the gray 
afternoon — the sad roaring of the distant sea waves 
— she described all so vividly that Denyse shuddered 
with her reflected emotions ; and when the final act 
came, and she clasped her hands over her heart, 
and^ with a pitiful cry, sought shelter in his arms, 


Femmetia, 


37 


he was as completely prostrated by the simulated 
tragedy as if he had been a party to it. 

He soothed Femmetia with kisses and tender 
words, and then said : 

“ There is something here to be done. That is 
certain. I remember now that none spoke much to 
me of — that man. But in the Amsterdam house 
there used to be, I think, a large painting of him. 
My grandfather died in the Amsterdam house, and 
perhaps he liked it not. Yet it is not a bad face. 
Think you it is bad, Femmetia ?” 

Without fear now, she looked up at it. Love 
sheltered her. Even as an evil angel, she would not 
have feared him with Denyse by her side, and her 
soul wide awake and present with her. No ; it was 
not a totally bad face. There must have been 
times when it was very handsome. It was easy to 
imagine it smiling down upon lovely women, and 
responding in generous light to the intercourse of 
friendship — a large, round face, with a nose like a 
hawk, and a chin like an egg, and a red, open throat. 
The eyes were dark and fine, but arched by those 
meeting black brows, always indicative of a suspi- 
cious and very jealous nature. The head was well 
formed, and covered with dark-brown hair, curling 
close all over it. 

“ He does not look like a very bad man, Femmetia. 
In the sunshine examine him, and you will say so.” 

“Well, then, in the midnight, with the lifted knife 
and those black eyes gleaming with murder, would 
you like to meet him ?” 


38 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


Let us call the servants. They have lived here 
all their lives. They will know more than we do." 

In response to the inquiries of Denyse, an old 
man came in from the stables, and by much ques- 
tioning and patient listening, they learned the main 
facts of the pictured man’s life. 

He was called Captain Joos Volckmaar, and he 
was a famous sailor and free trader. In those days 
men did not ask too many questions about a busi- 
ness that made plentiful and cheap what was scarce 
and dear. One year he went to the Shetland 
Islands. He took there a rich cargo of tea and 
coffee, French brandy and French silks, and after 
this one voyage he went there again and again. So 
at last he began to build the house in Zealand facing 
the sea, and he called it Rosendaal ; and neither gold 
nor labor was spared to make it beautiful. His 
sailors were well trained to secrecy about their cap. 
tain’s affairs, and so none knew that Captain Joos 
was in love until he brought to Rosendaal his wife. 

She was a beautiful Shetland girl, with hair like 
sunshine, and eyes like the summer sky, and a step 
like a queen. And for a year’s time Captain Joos 
stayed in his new house and seemed to have for 
gotten that he had ever been a sailor. But never 
for long does the sea permit such infidelity. She 
called and called him each day more imperatively, 
and back to his old love went Captain Joos. Then 
it was lonely for the young wife, for she knew little 
of the language, and had been so wrapped up in her 
husband that she had not cared to make any friends. 
And one day, while the captain was away, a Shet- 


Femmetia, 


39 


land schooner came to the village port, and the cap- 
tain of it went out to Rosendaal to see Madam 
Volckmaar. 

He brought her messages and presents from her 
own people, so he said. “ It was so, perhaps,” said 
the old man at this point “ but Captain Joos liked it 
not. Yet off to sea again he went, in spite of all, 
and so back and back came the Shetland man. He 
was a big fair sailor that looked like a lion ; and 
always out to Rosendaal as soon as his ship cast her 
anchor. And Madame Volckmaar she told not her 
husband always ; but always the village folk told 
him when the Shetlander came, and when he went, 
and how often, and how long the hours he passed 
at Rosendaal y 

Then Denyse looked at Femmetia, and both 
understood how out of such elements great trouble 
could come. 

And at last arrives a day when Captain Joos 
casts anchor just after the Shetlander, and plenty 
of men and women to tell him so, and too late it 
was. That night the Shetland skipper took his ship 
north, and Captain Joos’s wife went with him.” 

“ I do not believe it said Femmetia angrily. 

“ Madam must hear all, and then speak. The 
captain said that his wife had gone to see her father 
and her mother, and she would come back ; but all 
knew the false wife had gone with her lover, and 
would never come back. And when Captain Joos 
had waited for one year, he too went away ; and 
back to this home of his he came never again. She 
was a wicked woman. And there was much loss to 


40 


Mrs. Barr's Short Stones, 


the village also, for Captain Joos brought there no 
more his good business. Yes, she was a wicked 
woman to her husband, and to the village.” 

Then the passion of indignation moved Femmetia. 

“ She was not wicked she cried out. ‘‘ I am sure 
of it !” 

“ If madam permits me, I say she was a wicked 
mother as well as a wicked wife. Her little son, 
not one year old, she left alone in his cradle.” 

Then Femmetia shrieked, and the cry was like 
that of a woman wounded in the very seat of life. 
And Denyse sent the man away, and comforted her. 
And a sense of wrong and of bitter injustice took 
the place of all other feeling. 

“ The poor Shetland girl was murdered,” she 
said, in a low, positive voice, “ and then slandered. 
So she was murdered twice — in her soul and in her 
body. Perhaps her father and her mother heard a 
lie about her, and died without knowing the truth. 
And it may be that even yet the children of her 
own people fold her memory away in wrong and 
great shame. Denyse, it is our part to right this 
wrong. When the dead ask us to do justice, refuse 
we cannot.” 

Then they went slowly through every room, 
Femmetia seeking in that piteous house which 
memory builds, for some link to lead her to the 
truth. Suddenly she remembered the long, long 
stairs she had climbed, and Denyse suggested they 
might be the stairs to the cupola or lookout, a 
round tower at the southern extremity of the house. 
They found no door leading into it from the 


Femmetia, 


41 


house-rooms ; it was entered from the outside by 
a heavy door of oak. The key for this door could 
not be found, and it took nearly two hours to 
remove the lock and the rusted iron bolts that went 
across it. 

The interior was simply a vacant space filled 
with a flight of circling stone steps. Small loop- 
holes in the brickwork admitted the light, but it 
was very like a deep well. Also, it was quite 
given over to the bats, which clung to the walls in 
thousands, and covered the bricks with a palpitating 
tapestry, made of their evil, web-like wings. 

“ These are the stairs," said Femmetia. “ We 
shall find a room at the top of them.” 

The room was there. It was a circular space with 
a gallery round it and a great door facing the sea. 
There was nothing in it but a desk, some parchment 
charts and a couple of chairs. On the western side 
there was a large window, and in it a wide seat, 
which showed the remains of a cushion or mattress 
that had covered it. 

Femmetia stood still and looked around. 

It was just in this spot he slew me,” she said, 

and what did he do with the body ?” 

The walls were perfect. There was no sign of a 
closet, nor yet of there having ever been a closet in 
the place. Denyse was carefully examining them, 
but Femmetia stood still in the center of the room 
upon the spot where she had suffered. What next ? 
Like a flash of light the knowledge came to her. 
There was the window-seat. The top doubtless 
lifted like the lid of a box. In her own home, her 


42 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


mother kept the house-linen, the flax for spinning-^ 
the old newspapers and numerous household articles 
in such a place. 

“ That is where we must look,” she said, pointing 
the box-seat out to Denyse. 

The cushions fell to pieces when Denyse touched 
them, but the lid was nailed down. A strange, awful 
pity touched the young seekers. Denyse felt as if 
he ought not to make a noise. They were speech- 
less until the covering was removed. And there 
lay the handful of dust that had once been the 
beautiful Shetland girl. A ring of gold, that had 
been her wedding-ring, was among it ; and a broad 
bracelet of gold, with the names of Suneva Fae and 
Joos Volckmaar engraved on it. There was besides 
a tress of dead hair and an unfinished baby stocking 
that she had been knitting. The little sock was 
lighter than thistle-down, but it retained its shape, 
though the heavier steel needles had fallen away 
from it. 

Femmetia knelt down, weeping passionatelyt 
The tears of the living woman mingled with the dust 
of the deaJ^woman. Denyse stood gazing down with 
love and pity at his young heart. Thoughts he did 
not like to frame made his blood thrill softly through 
his body ; and the whole sad, lonely room was full 
of a solemnity not to be explained or expressed — a 
solemnity not devoid of a certain peace and satisfac- 
tion. 

“ Beloved Femmetia,” said Denyse, very gently 
“ we must seek counsel in this matter. Touch noth- 
ing. I will go the village for the domine. Holy 


Femmetia, 


43 


burial the dust deserves. Come then ! To your 
room go, and rest until I return.” 

“ It is here I will stay, Denyse. Fear not. By 
myself, I watch and pray. For myself, I watch and 
pray.” 

So Denyse went to the village for the domine, and 
the good man came willingly, being filled with awe, 
and with that sense of justice accomplished, which is 
strength and joy to a true soul. They talked of the 
dead girl and her murderer, and they found that 
Domine Arminius Buren knew all that could be 
known of Madam Volckmaar’s disappearance. 

“ Our old people were told by their fathers,” he 
said, “ that back and back came the Shetlander, and 
that he threw the lie in Captain Joos’s face, and pil- 
lared it, also, with his. He vowed that only to hear 
of her father and mother and her brother and sister 
she spoke with him ; and then, at last, there was fight 
on the quay, and Captain Joos was stabbed, and 
never the same man after. And with the fight the 
story seemed ended,” said the domine, “ for the house 
was closed, and the Shetlander came to Schoon- 
Havard nevermore.” 

Standing by the dust of the murdered and slan- 
dered girl, they talked of these things, and the sum- 
mer sunshine flooded the bare place, and Denyse 
opened all the windows he could open, for the clear 
salt air. 

The Volckmaars are all buried in Amsterdam,” 
said the domine, “ and I think, then, this dust should 
also go there. We can carry it with all honor, and 


44 


Mrs, Baev's Short Stories, 


bury it in piety and secrecy, and so the dead will be 
righted.” 

“ No ! No !” answered Femmetia. “ In a corner 
we will do nothing. To Shetland we will carry the 
dust of Suneva Fae, audit shall rest in the kirke-yard 
where her people rest, and wait for her justification. 
From the altar of the kirke where she was baptized 
and married, the domine shall declare her innocence 
and tell all of the great wrong God has righted. 
And next Sabbath afternoon, domine, you must 
gather the men and the women of Schoon-Havard in 
your kirke, and tell them that the lady did not run 
away from her duty and from her little child. And 
the ring and the bracelet must lie upon her coffin, 
for all to see. This is how we will right the dear 
dead Suneva, my husband — if you will it so.” 

And Denyse kissed her, and said : 

“ All that you have said shall be done, and more . 
also, my beloved.” 

Reverently and tenderly the dust of poor Suneva 
was taken to the room that had once been hers, and 
the domine stayed late with Denyse and Femmetia. 
And Femmetia told him many things in her heart, 
and he listened with the patience and respect of 
holy wisdom. 

“ God has nowhere declared, my children, that He 
would not send an angel, or a vision, or a dream,” 
he said. “ Blessed are they who can receive such 
message. The great Milton, who, doubtless saw 
interiorly, says, with the positiveness of one who 
knew : 


Femmetza. 


45 


“ * Millions of spiritual creatures walk this earth 
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.’ 

And surely this life cannot explain itself and its 
difficulties without the assistance of another. There 
is life beyond this life ; I dare not say there is not 
life before this life.” 

When Christ was asked, domine : ‘ Did this 
man sin or his father that he was born blind ?’ did 
not this question suppose an anterior life of sin to be 
atoned for ? Yet Christ did not deny it in general, 
only in that particular case.” 

“ All sin must be atoned for ; Christ’s sacrifice is 
the terribly grand recognition of this fact. My 
daughter, it is possible that those who will not 
accept the Sin-Bearer’s atonement for their sins may 
have to work out their own salvation with fear and 
trembling. But for all sin there is an atonement 
made. To accept it, God make us willing and 
obedient.” 

He went away with these words, and Denyse and 
Femmetia then began to speak of America, and 
their hearts grew hot with love and longing. 

“ So full of sins and sorrows are these old cities 
and houses ! Heavy is the air as that of a kirke- 
yard ! Home let me go !” said Femmetia. “ A new 
house let us build ; with timber from the fresh 
woods we will build it, and our lives among kindly, 
simple folk we will live. To Shetland we must go, 
and then, Denyse, to America our faces we will 
turn. Shall it not be so ? What are courts and 


46 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


nobles and fine ladies to our good fathers and 
mothers ?” 

And Denyse answered : 

“ Oh, my good wife, your wish you shall have. 
So deep is love ! Its roots are in the centuries 
behind us, its blossoms are in the centuries before 
us — and what know we V* 

‘‘ Only to love ! Only to love God and each other. 
Is it not enough ?’* 

** It is enough.’* 



MARRYING FOR MONEY, 

If many of my readers have been in Ambleside, 
they will not need that I describe it ; once seen, it 
^can never be forgotten. If they have not been there, 
no amount of superlatives and italics could do justice 
to the lovely village nestling amid the scented woods- 
and heathery fells that skirt the shores of Lake 
Windermere. 

At the time of which I write, Wordsworth, Southey 
and Christopher Northhad just introduced the world 
to its beauties ; and during the summer months the 
wayside inns were often crowded with artists, liter- 
ary men and summer tourists. But they were but 
birds of passage, flying at the first appearance of 
winter, and leaving “ the beautiful land ” to the 
wealthy squires and rude “statesmen" who had 
many of them owned its acres for a thousand years. 

They were hardly to be blamed for this. A man 
must be brought up in isolation to enjoy it ; and 
locomotion was then transient and difficult. I know 
it is different now that the steam-cars touch there 
twenty times a day — that Scafell and Skiddaw and 
Helvellyn have learned all the echoes of the nine- 
teenth century ; that the wayside inns have become 
fine hotels, the gray old farms summer-boarding 

[47] 




48 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


places, the lovely, peaceful hamlets, prosperous 
towns. I know these things are so, but I shall never 
see them. I don’t want to see them. I passed 
Ambleside several years ago in an express-train, and 
refused to alight, for I like best to keep my old 
memory of the place. 

My father’s church and parsonage were in the old 
town of Kendal, nine miles distant ; but what are 
nine miles to a lover of the angle ? And though but 
a girl, I had trailed my line in all the trout-brooks 
between the two places. As fishing, too, is a per- 
fectly canonical amusement, the minister generally 
accompanied me, especially in the summer months, 
when we resided together in Ambleside. 

We were coming home one night after ten hours’ 
ramble, very tired, and rather silent, though quite 
comforted by the large string of graylings in our 
possession, when my companion uttered a low 
exclamation of pleasure and surprise, and stood 
still. I looked up, and saw a couple just coming 
out of the beech-wood toward us. The girl I knew 
very well — not that we were friends, for she was a 
young lady and I but a school-girl, but I knew her 
as a visitor at the house. Indeed, she was such a 
lovely creature that no one in a small town could 
long remain ignorant of or uninterested about her. 

Her companion wore an officer’s uniform, and 
was very handsome and stately looking. He was a 
stranger to me, but he approached us with delight, 
and offered my father both hands. 

‘‘ God bless you, George ! When did you get 
home ?” 


Marrying for Money, 


49 


“ I arrived in Kendal yesterday, and finding Mrs. 
Atkin and Lucy were here, I came after them.” 

“ Certainly. Have you a long furlough ?” 

“ I have no furlough. I come on business for the 
general. When it is finished, I return immediately; 
but I am promised six months next year.” 

“ Good !” Then father said something to Lucy, 
which I do not remember, for I was watching her 
face and manner, and drawing my own inferences 
from what I saw. 

My first question, when we had left the lovers, 
was : 

“ Who is that gentleman, father ?” 

Captain George Strickland. His mother was my 
dearest friend. She died before you can remember ; 
and George has been in India six years.” 

“And Lucy Atkin — what is she to nim ?” 

“ Everything. She was only sixteen when he 
went away, and her mother would have no engage; 
ment ; but they love each other, of course.” 

“ Of course ; anybody can see that.” 

After this, I frequently met them. True, George 
had pretty often to go for a day or two to London ; 
but a few hours' ride put him on the Great Western 
Railroad, and express-trains made the separations 
short. One day, in the autumn, we were all invited 
to Mrs. Atkin's cottage to tea. Her cottage was 
really a cottage— a small, gray-stone building, white- 
washed outside, but surrounded by a sweet, old 
garden. It was only rented for the summer, for she 
lived in Kendal, keeping up, on the small pension 
allowed her by government for her husband's 


50 


Jkfrs. Barrs Short Stories, 


bravery and services, a very respectable appear- 
ance. But for all that, they were poor ; and Mrs 
Atkin, used for many years to a life of gayety and 
excitement, felt poor. Unfortunately, she too often 
succeeded in making Lucy feel poor, also. . 

Still, her daughter’s wonderful beauty gave her 
great hopes of recovering her lost position. Lucy 
had attracted universal admiration wherever she 
vrent ; and one young nobleman had followed her 
from HaiTowgate to Kendal. Fortunately, or unfor- 
tunately, his family had interfered in such a decided 
way that the affair came to nothing. Still, there 
were plenty of rich men; only, somehow, their admi- 
ration had not ended as she desired. Mrs. Atkin 
thought it was Lucy’s fault, and silently blamed 
the handsome Captain Strickland for all her disap- 
pointments. 

It did not please her that he had returned ; for 
Lucy, though twenty-two, was yet in the first flush 
of her beauty. She had never been fairer — never 
more bewitching. But there seemed to be no use 
in further opposition ; George loved as all true men 
have loved since the beginning of time, and Lucy 
believed that George was dearer than all the world 
to her, and frankly said so. We were invited to 
witness the formal ratification of their engagement. 

Soon after George went away, the summer was 
over, and we went back to Kendal. Then began a 
phase of the courtship I could understand. Lucy 
was always getting presents from India — fine Hin- 
doo jewelry, Decca muslins. Canton crape shawls. 
I began to think it must be nice to have a lover 


Marrying for Money, 


51 


with such sensible tastes. Besides, it made Lucy of 
importance in our little town ; and we talked about 
one beautiful present until another came. 

I am afraid George, in this respect, did a foolish 
thing, but in his great love he never thought of cal- 
culating effects ; still, undoubtedly his presents first 
developed in Lucy a passion for fine dress which 
had hitherto been latent for want of proper material 
to call it forth. Not even the Dowager Lady Low- 
ther now dressed more splendidly than little Lucy 
Atkin. 

Next year we were in Ambleside as soon as the 
apple-blossoms, and Mrs. Atkin soon followed us. 
That lady seemed now reconciled to Lucy’s choice ; 
and the marriage and the marriage dresses and the 
marriage trip and what George said and what Lucy 
wished were all her conversation. For Captain 
Strickland was coming for his bride in September, 
and in the three months intervening, much was to 
be done. 

I had spent one morning with Lucy and was going 
home to dinner. Passing a little wayside inn called 
the Salkeld Arms,” I saw a crowd of young far- 
mers. They were evidently greatly excited, and were 
drinking the health of some one, hurrahing and 
throwing their hats tumultuously into the air after 
every draught. I passed on the other side, yet I was 
full of curiosity and well inclined to gratify it, if 
looking would serve me. I soon saw the object of 
all this enthusiasm — a young man mounted on a 
magnificent horse, and dressed in a suit of fine, light 


52 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


drab broadcloth, profusely trimmed with gilt but- 
tons. 

He was of splendid height and build ; and when 
he rode from out the crowd, rose in his stirrups and 
lifted bis bat, and returned tbe bearty welcome, man 
and borse — for I cannot separate them — made as 
handsome a picture as I ever saw. Jerry, our hired 
gardener, was among tbe crowd, and I called him to 
come to me. 

“ Jerry, who is that gentleman you are all making 
such a fuss about?” 

“He, meese ? He’s our young squire, just coomed 
from furrin parts. God bless him ! theere beant 
mony like him and Jerry threw up his hat with 
another “ Hurrah !” 

“Very well, Jerry ! I suppose my father is noth- 
ing to you, now that the squire has come home.” 

“ Parson’s good enough, mees, but squire’s ourn^ 
and wer’t squire’s, these mony hoondred years and 
Jerry looked after the galloping figure with a species 
of feudal idolatry I found it hard to understand. 
And yet I might have understood it, for many a tale 
of devotion unto death I had heard from the old 
women of the dales, regarding that last “rising,” 
when every man in Kendal, at the bidding of this 
lad’s great-grandfather, had followed him and 
“bonnie Prince Charlie,” without a question or 
scruple. 

After this for a few days, the young squire was 
on everybody’s tongue. He gave a dinner and a 
dance to his tenantry ; he gave two prizes of ten 
pounds each for the best wrestler and the champion 


Marrying for Money, 


53 


at singlestick ; he sent gifts to the church and the 
parish school ; he went to see the old men and the 
old women in their cottages who were too old to 
come and see him. In a week, I was rather tired of 
the sayings and doings of Reginald Salkeld, and I 
took my rod and line and went off to the hills for a 
good, quiet, restful day. 

Nature never disappoints us. I got what I 
wanted, and was returning home through the beech 
woods at sunset, when I saw the squire in a very 
unexpected role. In a little open glade I had 
passed his horse, feeding quietly, and now, striking 
the footpath, I met Lucy Atkin and Reginald 
Salkeld walking together. The squire had his hat 
in his hand, his proud, handsome head and figure 
were bent lovingly to Lucy’s pretty face ; he 
pleaded as only lovers plead, and she dropped her 
eyes and listened as do maidens well-pleased to 
listen. 

Nevertheless, she blushed, and said something in 
a very embarrassed way when she met my aston- 
ished gaze ; the squire nodded in his frank way, and 
went on with his argument. I kept my own coun- 
sel for that night, for I thought I would go to see 
Lucy in the morning and ask her about it. But 
in the morning the squire was at Mrs. Atkin’s 
before I was. Lucy had gone out riding with him, 
and thenceforward it was the same story with slight 
variations. 

I don’t think he loved her any better than Captain 
Strickland did, but his circumstances and temper 
made it appear so. The captain’s love was neces- 


54 


Mrs, Barr's Short Stories, 


sarily restricted by his profession ; the. squire had 
nothing to do but nurse his passion, and tell it all 
the day long. He had never wanted anything and 
not got it, whether it was a fine horse or a piece of 
land, a passion gratified, or a whim indulged. He 
knew not how to be disappointed — he did not be- 
lieve it possible that he should be so. Money or 
persistence must win everything, and he had never 
felt so determined on winning anything as he did 
on winning Lucy Atkin for his wife. 

He had in Lucy’s mother a powerful ally. His 
ancient family and great wealth, his liberal offer of 
an addition to her own income, and the splendor of 
his proposed settlements on Lucy, even his hand- 
some person and free, jovial manners, completely 
won her allegiance. Lucy had little strength of 
character ; she was not able to withstand the per- 
suasions of her mother and the enthusiastic wooing 
of this gallant, generous lover. It was soon known 
all over the village that Squire Salkeld and Miss 
Atkin were to be married in August. 

People shook their heads, and quoted old proverbs 
about marrying in haste and repenting at leisure ; 
but no one who knew Reginald Salkeld wondered. 
When he wanted anything, he wanted it without 
delay ; a long courtship would have discouraged 
and wearied him ; and Mrs. Atkins saw from the 
first that if the thing was to be done, it were well 
done at once. My father warmly protested against 
the whole affair ; and there was a decided quarrel 
between our families in consequence, so that none 


Marrying for Money, 


55 


of US were present at the splendid wedding in the 
little Saxon church at Grassmere. 

George had been apprised of the change, first by 
the coolness and infrequency of Lucy’s letters, 
finally, by a frank communication from Mrs. Atkin. 
The poor fellow’s furlough, though not what he 
expected, was sorely needed . When he returned to 
Kendal, Lucy and her husband were in Paris, and 
Mrs. Atkin staying at Salkeld Hall ; so George spent 
most of his time with us at the parsonage. 

One day, old Lady Lowther called there in 
reference to the property of certain charities of 
which she was guardian. George happened to 
come into the room ; his name at once attracted 
her. 

“Oldest family in Westmoreland, my dear sir,” 
she said, with a kind of reverence ; and then, as she 
watched him down the garden walk, “and an 
exceedingly handsome, gentlemanly fellow. In the 
army, is he > Good ! my son must do something for 
him.” 

The first result to Captain Strickland was an 
invitation for the autumn shooting at Lowther 
Castle. The next news we heard was that, by some 
means or favor, George’s furlough had been length- 
ened ; then that he had been exchanged ; then that 
he had been promoted to a colon el ship in a crack 
home corps. We knew these changes argued the 
exertion of great favor and influence, and were not, 
therefore, much surprised when, in another year, 
we heard his good luck had been crowned by a mar- 


56 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


riage with a pretty little heiress — one of Lady 
Lowther’s pet nieces. 

The squire and his beautiful wife remained in 
Paris all winter, and returned to the Hall just about 
the same time we took up our summer quarters at 
Ambleside. In some measure our old familiarity 
was resumed ; but the visits to the Hall were not 
always happy ones. It was easy to see that Lucy 
had tried the great love of her husband to the utter- 
most. Her sunny temper seemed to have departed 
from her, she was frequently sullen and unreason- 
able, not to be pleased by any suggestion or effort 
he could make. 

Every time this happened, he got more indifferent, 
plunged into some carouse with the squires in his 
vicinity, or took rides of a day’s length, and refused 
all explanation of his proceedings. Still her beauty 
was almost omnipotent with him when she chose to 
exercise its power. No matter how ill-tempered the 
squire was, if she came to dinner splendidly arrayed, 
smiling and gracious, he would throw aside all his 
private anger, and readily respond to her slightest 
wish. At this time she held her own and her 
husband’s destiny in her hand ; a very small effort 
would have bound him to her for life. She would 
not make it. 

Unfortunately her mother died, and she had no 
children ; and she soon began to weary of a country 
life, when she would not take the slightest interest 
in such duties and pleasures as a country life 
afforded. She would neither ride, nor hunt, nor 
visit. She took no pride in the fine old mansion of 


Marrying for Mo7iey» 


57 


which she was the mistress ; the peculiarities of the 
neighboring families in her own station she would 
neither understand nor respect. Her husband soon 
found himself compelled to choose between his wife 
and his oldest friends ; even those who ignored her 
insults pitied him, and he felt himself to be con- 
tinually placed in irritating positions. Rather than 
be constantly explaining and apologizing, he gave 
up society and lounged moodily about his stables 
and his grounds. 

Two people shut up together, and mutually dis- 
satisfied, soon get to open quarreling ; and when it 
came to this, Lucy found she had the worst of it, for 
once Salkel lost control of his temper, not even his 
wife’s tears could affect him. They passed a miser- 
able winter, Reginald sometimes despairing, at 
others hoping, that, after all, Lucy might grow into 
more accord and sympathy with him. She could 
hardly have helped being touched by his great 
patience and long lingering admiration, if there had 
been in her heart any spark of true love for her 
husband. But she had got into the habit now of 
counting up her disappointments and her money, 
and she had come to the conclusion that in selling 
herself for gauds and finery she had made a bad 
bargain. 

Another year passed, and yet Lucy retained suffi- 
cient power to induce her husband to take her to 
London with him, and have her presented at court. 
For this step she had a reason so powerful that she 
thought it worth her while to be amiable and inter- 
esting for a whole month to gain it. In fact, she 


58 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


had read that Colonel Strickland now occupied a 
post in the royal household, which would compel 
their meeting if she was presented ; and she wanted 
to see again what she had thrown away. In her 
languid, aimless life, the small, petty effort to make 
her old lover feel a pang of regret seemed an object 
to her. Nothing but an idle, loveless woman without 
heart or principle, could have so deceived one true 
love, and so speculated on another, about which 
indeed, she could not sinlessly speculate at all. She 
had her punishment. Colonel Strickland’s young 
wife was with her husband, and her fresh, fair beauty 
was a terrible blow to Lucy, who had not known 
until their name was announced that her old lover 
was married. It was evident, too, that h e had married 
a girl as far above herself in social standing as in 
that indefinable sense of purity and peace which is 
the perfume of a lovely soul, and the greatest charm 
of a lovely body. She had scarcely heart to look 
her best ; she scarcely cared whether he saw her or 
not ; she felt thoroughly miserable. This last 
wretched die had failed, too ; she was utterly disap- 
pointed, with the addition of a certain sense that 
she had no right to be miserable and disappointed, 
and no cause either. 

From that hour she ceased to straggle with 
herself ; she admitted to her own heart that she had 
made a frightful mistake in her life, and that she 
could find no excuse for what she had done. She 
knew that even yet much remained to her, if she 
would cherish it, and that, at any rate, the alterna- 
tive was before her of still finding happiness in 


Marrying for Money, 


59 


making a good husband happy, or of crowning and 
completing her wretchedness by spoiling his life as 
Well as her own. 

There was something frightfully unjust in the 
latter course ; perhaps that attracted Lucy toward it 
’ — for it is a truth that all women, as a rule, find it 
easy to be self-denying and hard to be just. At any 
rate, Lucy plainly and passionately told herself that 
Reginald, having tempted her, should suffer with 
her. She had bound herself to misery ; she would 
bind him, also, to sorrow and disappointment, by 
the chords of her ill-temper and peevishness. 

But she had not calculated the strength of her 
adversary. Men who will forgive a great deal of 
fretfulness and complaining have no patience with 
women “ possessed by a dumb devil,” who spend 
their time irritating all around them by long, tear- 
less, gloomy sulkings. The patience of Reginald 
Salkeld was not proof against this weapon ; he broke 
out into fearful passions, to which Lucy opposed a 
dogged, silent, scornful indifference. 

Her joyless life, and the bitter stress of weary 
nights that hoped nothing from the morrow, soon 
told heavily upon her. Daily misery anticipated, 
time, and made her old too early. With the depart- 
ure of her beauty, her scepter passed from her ; she 
was at the mercy of the tyrant whom she had cre- 
ated, for Reginald had begun to drink hard and he 
was not improved by it. The servants began to 
listen fearfully to fierce scenes of reproach. 

There was no one to whom she could go for com- 
fort — no one to whom she could complain. It was 


6o 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories, 


her own willful doing ; she knew it. She, and she 
only, had turned the gay, happy lover, the proud, 
adoring husband, into the hard, cruel tyrant ; and 
she was too stubborn and sullen to care by any effort 
of humility to alter it. 

One day, after a bitter scene, there came a fright- 
ful temptation to her. She passed the dining-room 
sideboard, and the rich aromatic scent of the old 
wine tempted her in a strange and irresistible man- 
ner. She hesitated one moment, then drank and 
drank freely. For a short time it gave her back 
her lost empire ; but at what a price ! Her slave 
soon became her master ; stimulants and stupefac- 
tion, bodily exhaustion and mental horror brought 
her at last to the day of reckoning. 

Poor Lucy. It was impossible not to pity her now. 
Friends had long ago deserted her. She was very 
often compelled to be put under physical restraint. 
Only physicians and uncaring servants were around 
her ; and somewhere in the silent, gloomy Hall, an 
unloving husband sat waiting for the news of his 
release. It came one summer evening, seven years 
after her ill-starred marriage. There had been a 
long delirium, but at the last were a few moments 
of conscious peace ; and Reginald — not sorrowfully 
— stood by the wreck of his once lovely and beloved 
wife. 

“ Forgive me !” she whispered, painfully ; I am 
very — very — sorry." 

“ Oh, Lucy, Lucy ! Why did you not say this 
long ago and the strong man’s tears dropped upou 


Marrying for Money, 


6i 


the gray, weary face. “ Poor Lucy ! So young ! 
So young !” 

“ I have lived longer by — seven years — than I 
ought to have done. Forgive me ! Christ ! Christ !” 
— and with this blessed word, itself a prayer in our 
extremity, she passed — 

“ Into the eternal shadow 

That girds our life around. 

Into the infinite silence 
Wherewith death’s shore is bound.’* 

Hs * ^ ♦ ♦ ♦ H: 

Let no woman think that she can sin against a 
true love and be innocent. A slain love is too often 
a great rock upon which life itself is wrecked ; and 
who shall excuse or pardon those who waste life — 
life, which is all we have to front Eternity with ? 



OUT OF EGYPT. 


When Abraham Lincoln set the slaves of my 
father’s Maryland household free, he left me bound 
— bound with a double chain of pride and prejudice 
to old tradition and old habits, and hugging the 
fetters which no process of law could disannul. I 
had been very rich, and I was now very poor. 
Between the iron clasps that bound together had 
and now^ what misery lay — war, famine, pestilence, 
poverty ! The first three had done their worst, and 
gone ; the last, gaunt and melancholy, sat down on 
my desolated hearthstone and promised me his per- 
petual companionship. It did not seem to me at 
that time that I could help it. Work or beggary 
was the only avenue of escape, and I fancied one 
was just as disreputable as the other. Nor did it 
help me to see my companions gradually abandon- 
ing their principles. Emily Latrobe had gone to 
school- teaching ; Julia Home was helping her 
mother to keep a boarding-house. Even Richard, 
who had always sworn I was perfect, began to lis- 
ten silently, and to shake his head at what he called 
my “ impracticable views.” 

“I’ll tell you what it is. Lulu,” he replied one 
[62] 



Out of Egypt, 


63 


night, after I had been talking a great deal about 
Emily's degradation ; “ old Latrobe was as grand a 
gentleman as I shall ever see again, and Emily as 
dainty a little lady ; but it was either work or starve 
with her.” 

“ Then she ought to have starved. Many of the 
old French nobility did do it, rather than degrade 
their order.” 

Stuff, Lulu ! We are nearly a century older now 
and we know better. Besides, I tried starving in 
camp in Virginia last year, and it is hard work. 
And what is more, if business does not come soon, 
I shall pull down my shingle and teach or preach, 
or do any kind of work I can get to do.” 

“Very well, sir. In that case, our engagement 
would terminate.” 

We had many such disputes, and Richard grew 
graver and sadder each time ; while Emily's and 
Julia's new dresses and bright faces continually irri- 
tated me. They began to give advice ; I was a 
splendid musician. Why did I not try to make a 
little money ? 

“Make a little money!” I replied, scornfully. 
“ Make money and lose my self-respect ! The Pel- 
hams never worked for their living.” 

“ Well,” said Emily, “ I think it is time you began 
to redeem their character. Come, Lulu ; Mrs. Home 
says you can have Nettie to begin with.” 

My message to Mrs. Home was not a flattering 
one, and a few more such conversations broke up 
the friendship of a lifetime. 

One night, while still smarting from some such 


64 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


rencontre^ I saw Richard coming up the avenue. 
What a lazy grace was in his supple form ! What 
slumbering power in his magnificent length and 
strength of limb ; and when he came closer, I saw 
the fire of a new purpose in his eye. This purpose 
was to abandon his profession, and accept a situation 
in New York which a friend had procured him. I 
was amazed and indignant. “ Go into trade, Rich- 
ard, what nonsense !” We had many bitter words 
and when he went with a sad heart but resolute step 
from my presence, I knew that I had sealed my own 
misery. 

After Richard’s departure I went out less and less, 
and daily grew more and more unlike the society 
around me, which was changing continually, as it 
assimilated itself to the new order of everything. 
But in 1870 I stood where I had stood in i860 — a 
relic of a class which would soon be a tradition. In 
the first week of 1870, hovrever, a fire occurred, which 
destroyed my sole remaining property, the rent of 
which was my only means of procuring actual bread. 
I had now a chance to put my fine theories into prac- 
tice, and starve ; but such a dernier ressort never 
occurred to me. That fire seemed to liberate all the 
latent energy and power of my nature. I took 
prompt and rapid counsel with myself, and deter- 
mined at once to break away from every old associ- 
ation ; to come to New York and teach, or sew, or 
write, or any other honest thing my hands found to 
do. Perhaps some hope of meeting Richard again 
was at the foundation of this resolve ; but if so, I did 


Oict of Egypt, 


65 


not acknowledge it, though I had been longing for 
any excuse which would enable me to renew our old 
relation. Whatever was my motive, I followed out 
my design, though for many long, weary weeks noth- 
ing prospered with me. Work was very hard to get, 
and when I had succeeded, I was in actual want 
before my first quarter’s salary was due. I suffered 
so much that I began to be afraid of my own pale, 
thin face, and of the hunted look in my eyes, and to 
solemnly wonder, if I should die in the night, whether 
Richard would hear of it, and bury me decently. 
But when the tide has ebbed quite out, then it begins 
to flow again. 

One night, as I came up Broadway, faint and 
weary, and wondering how much longer I should be 
able to suffer, some one put his hand upon my 
shoulder from behind, and cried out, with a great 
pity: “Oh, Lulu! Lulu, darling I” I knew it 
was Richard, but I was too faint and sick to do 
more than look into his face and put my hand in 
his. He placed me in a carriage and took me some- 
where, I don’t know where, but the light and 
warmth and comfort seemed Paradise ; and he got 
me wine and food ; and pretty soon I had made a 
clean breast of all my mistakes and sufferings. A 
great temptation came to when he asked where I 
lived. For a moment the mean, miserable thought 
of hiding my real residence urged me but only 
for a moment. The next one, I looked him steadily 
in the face, and said, frankly : “ My home, Richard^ 

is in a small room on a third floor in Bleecker 
street." I am sure he knew how much it cost me 


66 


Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


to say this, for he flushed with pleasure as he 
answered : You dear, brave little woman !” 

Then he put my arm in his, and walked with me to 
my abode. 

With that confession, the last link of my chain 
fell from me. The sting of poverty is in being 
ashamed of it. 

We were not married until the summer vaca- 
tion ; for I was determined to show Richard that I 
had learned the obligation of business arrangements. 
Our home was quite down town, and I dare say 
fashionable people would not acknowledge that they 
had ever heard of such a place ; but we had 
three bright, pretty rooms there, and it was near to 
Richard’s place of business, and quite accessible to 
those whose friendship is not limited by localities. 
I suppose you will say that I only came out of one 
bondage to go into another. Well, that was twenty 
years ago, but Richard is a better master to me 
than ever I was to myself. I have never felt my 
bonds, and I look upon the little gold emblem of 
my captivity with more love and respect than if it 
was an amulet of the saints. 



JOHN TAGGERT’S TRIAL, 


Thirty-five years ago this summer, I spent some 
delightful months in that most picturesque and 
charming of retreats — the Isle of Man, with my 
headquarters at Castletown. 

During the summer months, when the herring 
fishery was at its height, Castletown pier in the 
early hours of the morning was a most pictur- 
esque place, with its boats and masses of gleaming 
fish and queer fishermen — and fisherwomen, too, for 
that matter — Irish and Scotch and Welsh and Eng- 
lish and Manx. 

But ' towering like Saul, head and shoulders 
above the crowd, I noticed always a young Manx- 
man, who seemed to be an authority on all sub- 
jects of sale. He wore the common dress of blue 
flannel, cut in the usual quaint, ungraceful form, 
but no form of dress could have spoiled a figure 
molded in nature's noblest proportions. His bare 
brown throat supported a head and face strikingly 
handsome, though it was evident from its glowing, 
bronzed tint, that it had been set against the suns 
and winds of heaven for many a year. 

We soon found out that this man was universally 

[67] 


68 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


respected, and eagerly sought after, not only by his 
own class, but by leisurely visitors, to whom his 
knowledge of the sea and of the coast, and of every 
point of interest within a day’s pleasuring, was inval- 
uable. 

He seemed, however, to particularly attach him- 
self to a young Englishman called Philip Saville, 
who spent some of his time sketching, riding, and 
dining with the officers of the garrison ; but the most 
of it in an open boat out at sea. Indeed, people soon 
began to notice that Philip Saville and the fisher- 
man, John Taggert, were never very long apart. 

The summer passed, and autumn, with its occa- 
sional stormy days, was upon us. Still Saville lin- 
gered, people said, solely because he could not bear 
to part with John Taggert. I had, however, some 
doubts as to whether John was the only charm ; for 
twice when I had been gathering blackberries in 
Ballabeg woods, I had come upon Saville and a beau- 
tiful peasant girl, named Mary Boyd, belonging to 
the little hamlet on the sands. A few days after my 
second meeting of them, I received an invitation to 
attend a Manx fisherman’s wedding to be given in 
the great barn of G Wynne estate ; for the bride’s 
people had been retainers of the Gwynnes for cen- 
turies, and the master of Gwynne and all his family 
were to dance at the bridal. Many of the officers 
and visitors of the city were guests, and among the 
rest, Philip Saville. 

His glance, on entering the barn, sought until it 
found Mary, and then it followed her every move- 
ment. It seemed to specially annoy Philip that 


John Taggerf s Trial. 


69 


John Taggert was on the most familiar terms with 
her, and after awhile, as John passed him, he said, 
in a querulous voice : 

“ I should think, John, you would be tired trotting 
round after that little girl — you have done nothing 
else for nearly three hours." 

John answered pleasantly : 

“ And what for would I be tired in three hours, 
when it is all the days of my life I mean to trot after 
her ?" 

Philip’s face darkened visibly, but he made no 
answer. Soon after, however, I missed him, and 
looking through the room, I saw Mary was also 
absent. It was a lovely September night, with a 
full, yellow moon, and as many of the visitors had 
left the barn for a stroll on the firm, dry sands, I 
took a friend’s arm and joined them. We had not 
walked far, when we met Philip and Mary hand in 
hand, and when John Taggert missed his love and 
his friend, he w^alked to the bam-door and instantly 
saw them sauntering together on the moonlit sands. 

It did not take him many minutes to reach them. 

Mary," he said, in an angry voice, “you come 
home with me at once, or I’ll — ’’ 

“John, if you threaten me, I’ll never come with 
you again.’’ 

“ You can please yourself, Mary Boyd ; it’s not 
John Taggert, though he is your promised husband, 
that will ask you twice." 

And with a furious look at Philip, which Philip 
answered by a provoking little laugh, John went 
back to the wedding guests. 


70 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


But all his gayety was gone ; he would neither 
dance nor sing ; and long before the festivities were 
over, he left. As he went home, he glanced toward 
the sands. Philip and Mary were together. Philip 
held her hand, and stooped his proud head to listen 
to what she was saying. John glanced but a moment 
at this bitter sight, then, with a muttered threat, not 
pleasant to hear, he took the other way. Unfortu- 
nately, several people heard the words, and they 
were afterward recalled to his condemnation. 

A party of Rock-Cod fishers came in one morn- 
ing, bringing with them Philip’s private row-boat * 
which they had found floating a couple of miles 
out of harbor. His line and a couple of books 
were in the boat, and the oars were found not far 
away ; but there was no trace of the young man- 
People began to inquire next where John had been 
during the flow of that morning’s tide, and when it 
was proved that he had been seen leaving the 
harbor very early that morning, many looked on 
him with faces of dreadful meaning. 

Still, none liked to be premature. Mr. Saville 
was always swayed by the caprice of the moment, 
and it was suggested that he had perhaps met a 
fishing-smack, and gone with the crew to enjoy 
some deep sea-fishing. Every boat that came into 
the little ports adjacent was eagerly inquired of ; 
no one, however, had seen anything of the missing 
man. Day by day the suspicion of foul play grew 
more definite. 

When ten days had elapsed, and no letters or 
tidings came, the proper authorities took charge of 


John T agger t^s Trial. 


71 


Philip’s personal effects, and John Taggert was 
arrested on suspicion ; but there being no positive 
evidence to confirm the vague suspicions regarding 
him, he was acquitted. 

But now began the worst of his punishment. The 
severity of the old laws of Man had made the 
peasantry look upon crime as something altogether 
dreadful ; murder was a thing nearly unknown, 
and beyond the pale of excuse or pardon ; its very 
suspicion was a frightful thing. John Taggert 
found himself in pretty much the same condition 
as the excommunicated man in the Dark Ages. 

He could get no work ; if he had not had money 
saved he must have starved or left Castletown. 
About Christmas time, he met on the sea-shore the 
rector of the church he had once so regularly 
attended. He would have passed him with a dark, 
averted face, but the good man would not let him ; 
he put ou this hand and looked John steadily and 
kindly in the face. 

“ John,” he said, ‘‘ do you think I am going to eat 
my Christmas dinner with your dark, stubborn face 
haunting me ? Why have you not come to see me 
in your trouble ?” 

“Your servants, sir, would have said I left a 
bloody step at the door-stone. Would you have 
allowed me to stand upon your hearth T' 

“ Did you ever try me, John ? Turn now with 
me and come to my study, for I have something to 
say to you.” 

Then the good man led him on to tell all the 
petty insults whose tremendous cumulative power 


72 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


was fast turning him into a fierce, bitter hater of 
his kind ; and the poor fellow found comfort even 
in this unburdening of his grief, as well as in the 
unspoken sympathy that glistened in his listener’s 
eyes. At last, when the heavy heart had unburdened 
all its agony, the rector said : 

“ John, why don’t you go away from Castletown ?” 

“ No, sir,” he answered, passionately ; “ I have 

done nothing to run away for. If there is any 
justice in Heaven, it will clear me in the sight of my 
neighbors and kin-folk. I can wait ; but I want to 
be here on the spot when God is ready to hear my 
cause.” 

“ Are you suffering for money or necessaries ?” 

Not much, sir ; for since your reverence has 
been so kind to me, I will trust you with my one 
secret. Mary Boyd brings me many a bowl of bread 
and milk to the old Druid stones. Our people don’t 
venture there after night, but Mary loves me, and 
love is not af eared of ghosts.” 

“ I am glad to hear this, John. Then Mary, as 
well as I, believes you to be innocent ?” 

For a moment John could not speak ; then with 
full eyes, he answered : 

“ For them words, sir, God bless you ! If you and 
Mary believe me innocent, I am not quite hopeless. 
Mary has never doubted me ; she sought me out 
at once in my trouble and loneliness. I should 
have gone mad or died the last few weeks but for 
her.” 

“ If I should give you work and a little cottage. 


John Tagger fs Trial 


73 


would Mary marry you, and thus enable you to live 
down, in your home, these suspicions ?” 

“ Yes, sir, she would leave all her people and come 
to me ; but that is a thing I would not let her do. I 
would not stain my Mary’s name, and, perhaps, the 
unborn innocent, with my misfortune. When I am 
proved guiltless is time enough forme to marry.” 

After this, John was sullen and silent enough, 
but he did the work the rector gave him, and the 
support of a man so respected began, in some slight 
degree, to change public sentiment. 

But if there was any change in his neighbors, 
John took no notice of it. He spoke to no one, he did 
what work the rector gave him, or spent whole days 
on the winter sea, comforted at rare, happy moments, 
by a stolen visit from Mary. And so the weeks 
crept on, until the middle of February. There had 
been a heavy wind all day, and the sea and the 
wind rose together as the day advanced. Going up 
Malew street, he met an old man who had once 
been his hearty admirer and friend. The man had 
not spoken to him since his trouble, but this time he 
said, timidly : 

“ Going to be a very bad, dirty night, John.” 

Yes,” replied John, curtly. 

“ Small craft pretty near Quiggin Point. Hope 
she may not get too near them Scarlet Rocks.” 

If she was worth her sails she would have put 
into harbor early to-day.'* 

It was the longest conversation John had held 
with any of his comrades for months. He suddenly 
remembered the fact, and walked hurriedly away. 


74 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


“ Poor fellow !” muttered the old man. “ Maybe 
now, he is none to blame.” 

That night the storm grew wilder and wilder 
until midnight, and long before dawn, in the pauses 
of the wind, could be faintly heard the gun of a ship 
in distress. As soon as it was light, a crowd of men 
gathered on the shore, watching eagerly the craft 
in danger. It was hard to tell what she was — all 
her masts were gone, and she seemed to be rapidly 
breaking up. Yet the sea ran so high, and the 
danger of launching a boat was so imminent, that 
the oldest sailor feared to risk it. 

Then John Taggert stepped eagerly forward. 

“ Will any man go with me,” he said, “ to save 
yonder poor fellows ?” 

No one spoke. Of all races the Manx are the 
most superstitious ; and if John was really a mur- 
derer, they did not wish to share his fate ; so no one 
answered his appeal by word or movement. John 
set his lips and frowned darkly. 

“ Is there any man here, then, who will help me 
launch a boat, and I will go alone ?” 

“ I will,” said the old man, who had spoken to 
him the day before. 

Now, if ever a human being was in a mood to com- 
mand winds and waters, John Taggert was that 
morning. He leaped off the quay into the dropped 
boat, and all thought for a moment that he had 
found his death, but presently they saw him grasp- 
ing both oars, erect and firm. Just then the rector 
reached the anxious crowd. 

“ God bless you, John !” he cried. 


John Tagger fs T'iaL 


75 


But John heard not the blessing ; his face was set 
seaward, every muscle, every sense was strained to 
the uttermost, and yet he afterward said he was 
sensible of no exertion. He rowed as a man in a 
dream might row. Through marvelous dangers 
and difficulties he reached the wreck ; then, as he 
neared it, he gave a great shout, for, clinging to a 
remnant of the mainmast was a figure he knew but 
too well. He could not doubt his eyes — it was, it 
certainly was Philip Saville ! 

Here was his vindication. John never doubted 
but that Heaven had sent it, and even as he toiled 
in rowing, he did not forget the uplifting of his 
heart in unutterable gratitude. How he got the 
men off the wreck and got the crowded boat back 
safe to Castletown quay was always a mystery to 
John. He was always inclined to regard the whole 
affair as somewhat supernatural. In truth, he was 
possessed by feelings far beyond those that move us 
to ordinary action, and the enthusiasm that filled 
his own soul he imparted to the half-drowned men 
he came to save. They obeyed him as if he had 
been a god, and John had part of his reward in the 
shouts that greeted the boat as she slowly and dan- 
gerously neared the land. 

But when John himself lifted Philip Saville out 
of it, and in his strong, loving arms carried him as 
a mother would carry a child, men were afraid to 
speak ; for there was an exaltation in his manner 
that awed them ; so, also, when the rector drew him 
into the square, and a great crowd gathered round 
the justified man, there were more hand-shakings 


76 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


than words, for the Manx are a silent people, more 
given to action than professions. 

Philip’s explanation was a natural one. Early one 
morning, he had met out at sea the yacht of an old 
companion, and learned from him that his elder 
brother had been killed by a railway accident, and 
that the family lawyer was looking for him. As 
there were only two steamers a week between the 
Island and Liverpool, and as it would be impossible 
to catch the one sailing that day, his friend had 
offered to run him across to Liverpool in his yacht. 
Without much thought he had accepted the offer, 
leaving a note in the boat to inform his landlady 
what to do with his effects if any one found the boat, 
which was almost certain to be the case. He had 
also instructed his lawyer to write to Castletown ; 
but both directions had failed. Probably the note 
had been blown away ; and the lawyer amid the 
more important business of settling up and transfer- 
ring the estate, had not thought the few sovereigns 
lying in Castletown of urgent interest, and of graver 
consequences he was totally ignorant. 

Then Philip had been compelled to leave England 
immediately with a sister, whose delicate health the 
shock of her brother’s death had greatly injtired. 
Amid the delights of Rome, he forgot his Castle- 
town life, until one morning, about a month previous, 
in a package of delayed English letters, he found 
one from the rector of Castletown, detailing the 
wretched consequences of Mr. Saville’s disappear- 
ance. This letter had been sent to the family seat 
after Philip’s departure for Italy, and had been for- 


John Taggert^s Trial, * 


n 


warded to his lawyer in London, and, after many 
delays, finally reached the right person. 

Without a moment's delay, Philip had started for 
England, and finding that in winter steamers only 
run once a week between the Island and Liverpool, 
he had hired a small craft to bring him over at once 
to Castletown, and he had thus met the storm that 
had so nearly proved fatal. There are some calam- 
ities that never meet adequate compensation, for 
Job does not always recover his sons and daughters, 
but everything that a friendship consecrated and 
sealed in the very presence of death could devise, and 
everything that abundant wealth could perform, 
Philip did to recompense the weary, shameful 
months that were irreclaimable. Henceforward, 
John sailed his own ship, and Mary received as her 
wedding gift the prettiest cottage in her native vil- 
lage, and together they have seen many good days, 
and had their full share of prosperity. 

It is not always easy to trust our honor and vindi- 
cation to Heaven, but it is always safe. 



The Forsyth Will Case. 


“ There are some things the multiplication table 
can’t estimate, Doctor, and I calculate this case is 
one of them." 

The speaker was a Texan alcalde of half a century 
ago, a man with a grave, handsome face, and one of 
those gigantic antediluvian figures only found in the 
bracing atmosphere of the prairie, or the lush free- 
dom of the woods. 

The senorita will help you to a fair settlement ; 
she knows her own mind. Santa Jose / few 
women know as much." 

The doctor gave his opinion decidedly, and in 
very good English, albeit his small, yellow person 
and courtly, dignified manner fully proclaimed his 
Mexican lineage. Then he calmly helped himself 
to an olive and a glass of chambertin, and watched 
the alcalde as he smoked, and waited for the expected 
aymitamiento^ or jury. 

In half an hour, the twelve men had dropped in 
by twos and threes, nodded coolly to the alcalde, and 
helped themselves to the liquors and cigars on the 
sideboard. Now and then, they spoke in monosyl- 
lables; and the composure, gravity and utter absence 
of hurry gave a kind of dignified, patriarchal earn- 
[78] 


The Forsyth Will Case, 


79 


estness to the proceedings that were eminently 
American, and which quite made up for the lack of 
ceremony. 

After a lapse of five minutes, the alcalde touched 
a little bell, and said to the negro who answered it : 

“Zip, tell the gentlemen we are waiting and send 
Tamar for Miss Mary.’* 

“The gentlemen,” who were sitting under a 
gigantic arbor vitae oak in the garden, in close con- 
versation, rose at Zip’s message, and sauntered 
slowly into the presence of the alcalde^ who nodded 
rather stiffly to them and motioned toward two chairs. 
They were evidently men of culture, and brothers ; 
some of the jurors leaned toward them with courte- 
ous salutations, others simply ignored their presence. 

But every one’s interest was aroused, when the 
doctor, hearing a footstep, rose, opened the door, and 
offered his hand to a lady who entered. A calm- 
browed woman with large, steadfast eyes — a woman 
who it was easy to see could be a law unto herself. 

She looked inquiringly at the two gentlemen, who 
were evidently her brothers, but finding no response 
to the unuttered love in her pleading eyes, dropped 
them, and calmly took the seat her friend led her 
to. 

There was another pause ; then the alcalde laid 
down his cigar, and said : 

“ Men !” 

“ Squire !” 

“ We have got a little business to settle between 
David and George Forsyth and their sister Mary. 
You are to judge fairly between them, and they are 


8o 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


willing to stand by what you say. I calculate they’ll 
explain their own business best. David Forsyth, 
will you speak for your side ?” 

David was a keen, shrewd lawyer, and knew how 
to state his case very plausibly. He said that his 
father, unduly influenced by Doctor Zavala — who 
had designs on their sister’s hand — had left, not only 
the homestead, but thirty thousand dollars in gold, 
to Mary Forsyth, and that they claimed their share 
of the money. 

The men listened gravely, with keen, side-long 
glances. When he had finished, one of them said : 

‘‘Very good, stranger; now, what do you mean 
by ‘ unduly influenced ?’ ” 

“ I mean that this Mexican passed whole days 
with my father, reading to him, talking to him, and 
in other ways winning his affection, in order to 
influence him in the making of his will.” 

“ How much did old Forsyth leave Doctor 
Zavala ?” 

“ He left him personally nothing, but — ” 

“ O !” — the men nodded gravely at one another. 

“ But,” said David, angrily, “ he had a deeper 
scheme than that. He induced my father to turn 
everything but his homestead into money, and to 
place the whole sum in the San Antonio Bank to 
Mary’s credit. We have no objections to Mary 
having her share, but we do not see why our share 
should go to that Mexican whom she intends to 
marry.” 

The doctor smiled sarcastically, and Mary, blush- 
ing with indignation, half rose as if to speak, but a 


The Forsyth Will Case, 


8i 


slight movement of Zavala’s eyelids was sufficient to 
check the impulse. 

“ Then Mary Forsyth is going to marry Doctor 
Zavala ?” 

“ Of course she is.” 

“ And you are willing that she should have the 
homestead and ten thousand dollars ?” 

“We are willing she vShould have the use of the 
homestead for a moderate rent. We are not willing 
to give up all claim to it. Why, there are two hun- 
dred acres of the finest cotton land in the world that 
go with it. If she had the entire right to the home- 
stead, she ought to give up the money.” 

“ Mr. George Forsyth, what have you to say ?” 

“ My'brother David has spoken for me.” 

Then there was a pause. The procurador stepped 
to the sideboard, and filled his glass ; several of the 
jury followed him, and the others chewed away with 
silent, thoughtful intentness. 

“ Doctor Lorenzo Zavala, will you speak for the 
defendant ?” 

The doctor turned his chair so as to face both the 
brothers and the jury, but did not rise. 

“ Men,” he said, “ I have known the late David 
Forsyth for twenty years. I have been his physi- 
cian and been his friend. I saw his wife die, and 
watched his children grow to what they are. When 
the good mother left them, Mary was twelve years 
old, David ten, and George eight. For her father 
and brothers, Mary sacrificed all that makes the 
youth to other women !” 

“ Will you be plainer. Doctor ?” 


82 


Jkf7^s. Barr s Short Stories. 


“ If you desire. It is known to me how they were 
then poor, her father a trader in silks and laces and 
ladies' fine goods, between San Antonio and the 
outlying settlements. But he was a good man, 
industrious and ambitious. For his two sons, he had 
great hopes, and saved and saved and saved by day 
and by night. The little girl at home helped him 
bravely, hiring out their one servant, and doing 
cheerfully the work with her own hands. She 
plaited the straw, and made hats, also, which sold 
for much ; and she worked up the remnants of lace 
and ribbons into one thousand pretty trifles for the 
fair women in San Antonio.” 

“ Alcalde^ these details are irrelevant and imperti- 
nent,” said David angrily. 

“ Every man tells his story in his own way. Are 
you willing to listen, men ?” 

There was a universal articulation which evidently 
meant ‘‘ yes for the doctor smiled graciously, and 
went on : 

“ For her two brothers, the little Mary worked, 
and always worked with a glad heart. They had 
been sent to the Northern States to school, and 
David was educated for a lawyer, and George for an 
architect and builder. For eight years, this father 
and sister worked together, solely for these beloved 
boys, sparing all comforts to themselves. So they 
paid all their expenses liberally, and saved besides 
about ten thousand dollars.” 

“ But when the young men came back, there was 
great sorrow and disappointment. They had been 
educated beyond the simple trader, the self-denying 


The Forsyth Will Case. 83 


sister, and the log-house on the Wachita prairie. So 
much sorrow and disappointment that the sister at 
last begged for them that they should go to the 
capital, and divide the ten thousand dollars between 
them.” 

“ How do you know such a thing? It is a lie !” 
said George. 

“ I have the father’s letter which says so. Will 
the alcalde and the jury read it ?” 

The alcalde read the document, and nodded to the 
jury. 

“ You have forgotten, Mr. George,” he said ; “ it is 
easy to forget such money, The doctor is right.” 

“ After this, the father heard little from his sons. 
They married, and forgot the self-denial, the hard 
labor, and the love of so many, many years. The 
old man worked on, with failing health ; but now 
that he had lost his ambition, and cared little for 
money, it came on every venture. He did not try 
to make it, but it came and came. He made on 
silk and cotton and land ; whatever he touched was 
fortune. 

“ But as money came, health went ; he was sick 
and suffering, and could not bear his daughter away 
from him. He was jealous of her love, also, and he 
suffered her not a lover. This one thing I allow 
not myself to speak about. I tell you, alcalde^ this 
woman showed through many years one great, sub- 
lime sacrifice. Upon my honor, Senors T and the 
little gentleman laid his hand upon his heart, and 
bowed to Mary as if she had been a queen. 

“Not for myself ; that is one infamy, one scandal 


84 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


too great to be believed. As my sister, as my 
friend, I honor Miss Mary Forsyth. As my wife 1 
Impossible ! Does not all San Antonio know that I 
adore alone the incomparable Dolores Henriquez ? 

“ One day, as I sat reading by my friend’s bed, he 
said to me : 

“ ‘ Doctor, that is a pitiful story, and too true. 
We think it a grievous wrong not to give our sons a 
trade or a profession, but we never think what is to 
become of the poor girls.’ 

“ I said : ‘ Oh, we expect them to marry.’ 

“ ‘ But they don’t. Doctor,’ he said, ‘ they don’t. 
Doctor ; and the most that do, are left, by death, 
ill-usage or misfortune to fight the world some 
time or other, with no weapon but a needle, Doctor. 
It is a sin and a shame !’ 

‘ It’s the way of the world, my friend,’ I said. 

‘ I know. I spent thousands of dollars on my 
boys, and then divided all I had between them. If 
Providence had not blessed my work extraordin- 
arily, or if I had died five years ago, what would 
have become of Mary ?’ 

“ So, gentlemen, I said : 

“ ‘ Squire, your sons do not know that you have 
made more money ; they thought they had got all 
you had, and have not visited you, or written to you, 
lest you should ask anything of them. Do justice 
at once to your loving, faithful daughter ; secure her 
now from want and dependence, and give her, at 
length, leisure to love and rest.’ 

“ And my friend, being a good man, did as I 
advised that he should do. For that he died in good 


The Forsyth Will Case, 


85 


peace with his own conscience, and made me for 
once, SenorSy very happy that I gave good advice, 
free, gratis, for nothing at all.” 

“ So you did not profit at all by this will ?” 

“ Not one dollar in money, but very much in my 
conscience. Santa Jost ! I am well content.” 

“ Miss Mary,” said the alcalde y kindly, “ have you 
anything to say ?” 

Mary raised her clear, gray eyes, and looked with 
yearning tenderness into her brothers’ faces. David 
pretended to be reading. George stooped over and 
spoke to him. With a sigh, she turned to the 
alcalde. 

“ Ask my brothers what they value the home- 
stead at.” 

Two thousand dollars,” promptly answered 
David. 

“ Too much — too much,” grumbled all the jury. 

Two thousand dollars,” re-asserted David ; and 
George added : “ Bare value.” 

I will buy it at two thousand dollars. Will you 
ask my brothers if they have any daughters, 
alcalde f” 

“ Gentlemen, you hear ? Have you any daugh- 
ters .?” 

David said surlily that he had no children at all, 
and one of the jurymen muttered, with a queer 
laugh, that he was sorry — didn’t see how his sin. 
was “ a-going to find him out.” 

George said he had two daughters. 

“ Ask their names, alcalde.'' 

“ Mary and Nellie.” 


86 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


The poor sister’s eyes filled as she looked in. 
George’s face and said : 

“ Alcalde^ I give to my niece Mary ten thousand 
dollars, and to my niece Nellie ten thousand dollars, 
and I hope you and the good men present will 
allow the gift to stand. I know my brother 
David will never want a dollar while there is one in 
the country he lives in. George is extravagant, and 
will have always a ten-dollar road for a five-dollar 
piece ; but his boys can learn his own or their 
uncle’s trade ; there are plenty of ways for them. 
I would like to put the girls beyond dependence 
and beyond the necessity of marrying for a living.” 

David rose in a fury, and said he would listen no 
longer to such nonsense. 

“You forget, Mr. Forsyth, that you have put this 
case into our hands. I think you will have more 
sense than to make enemies of thirteen of the best 
men in the neighborhood. Gentlemen, would you 
like to retire and consider this matter ?” 

“ Not at all, alcalde. I am for giving Miss Forsyth 
all her father gave her.” 

“ And I,” “ And I,” “ And I,” cried the whole 
twelve almost simultaneously. 

“ I shall contest this affair before the San Antonio 
court,” cried David, passionately. 

“ You’ll think better of it, Mr. Forsyth. Do you 
mean to say you brought twelve men here to help 
you rob your sister, sir ?” 

“ I mean to say that that Mexican Zavala has 
robbed me. I shall call him to account.” 

The doctor laughed good-naturedly, and answered : 


The Forsyth Will Case, 


87 


“We have each our own weapons, my friend. 
I cannot fight with any other. Besides, I marry 
me a wife next week.” And the doctor leaned 
pleasantly on the alcalde's chair, and, with a joke, 
bade friend after friend “ Good-bye.” 

Mary Forsyth carried out her intentions. She 
settled, strictly and carefully, ten thousand dollars 
on each of her neices, bought her homestead, and 
then sat down to consider what she should do 
with her eight thousand dollars. 

“If I were a Frenchwoman and San Antonio 
were Paris,” she said, “ I would rent a store and 
go to trading. I know how to buy and sell by 
instinct ; and if I were a born farmer, I could 
plant corn and cotton, and turn them into gold ; 
but I am not a farmer — I never made a garden 
and got a decent meal out of it. I calculate 
’twill be best to get John Doyle for head-man 
and put my money in cattle.” 

Just as she came to this decision. Doctor Zavala 
drove up hurriedly to the door. 

“ Mary ! Ma,vy !” he cried, “ come, quickly ! There 
is an old friend of yours in the timber too ill 
with the dengue fever to move.” 

“ What do you need. Doctor ?” 

“ Need ? I need you and a couple of men to carry 
him here. Do you know that it is Will Morrison ?’» 

“ O, Doctor ! Doctor !” 

“ Fact. Heard of your father’s death in Arizona, 
and came straight home to look after you. Poor fel- 
low ! he’s pretty bad.” 

Well, Mary did not need to hire John Doyle as 


88 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


head-man ; for Will, who had loved her faithfully 
for fifteen long years, was the finest stock-man in 
the State ; and within three months, the doctor and 
his beautiful Dolores danced a fandango at Mary and 
Will’s wedding. 



LUCK. 


“ Do you see that big, new granite building over 
there, James ? That belongs to David Tannahill.” 

“ Well, Archy, what of it ?” 

“ Well, ten years ago, he hadn’t a bawbee to his 
name.” 

The time was thirty years ago. The speakers were 
two youths, dressed in the flaring scarlet gowns and 
square caps which the rules of Glasgow College pre- 
scribe to her students ; and they stood a moment to 
look admiringly at the huge block of white stone. 

“ Such luck !” said Archy ; ‘‘ and I mind him well 
enough in our village chipping stone. His father 
was a stone-mason, and David learned his trade with 
him.” 

“ ‘ Tannahill & Co., Importers of Indian and Turk- 
ish Goods,’” read James. “How’s that, then? 
What’s a stone-mason doing with Decca gauzes and 
muslins from Stamboul, eh ?” 

“ That’s the story, and I mind the beginning of 
it. It was one summer afternoon, and David was 
chipping away in his father’s yard at Hamilton. I 
and wheen other boys were sauntering off with our 
lines to Coila-Linn for trout, when a gig, with a gen- 
tleman in it, came dashing through the village. The 

[89] 


90 


Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


horse had run away, and taken all things its own 
road. I don’t know just how, but David flung down 
his mallet and caught the beast. The saved man 
was John Orr, the great Turkey merchant, and he 
offered David money or schooling, or what he wanted. 
But David would naught but a chance to learn trad- 
ing, for he had the gift to turn one bawbee into ten ; 
and so John Orr took him back to Glasgow with him. 

Up, up, from one desk to another ; then to 
Constantinople ; syne a partner ; by and by a son-in- 
law ; last of all, heir of John Orr’s house and land and 
business. It’s like a page out of the ‘ Thousand and 
One Nights.’ A fellow had better be born lucky 
than rich. There were plenty of young men in 
Hamilton you’d have picked out for Fortune before 
David Tannahill ; but it was just his luck.” 

“ Luck ! I don’t know that. David must have 
been clever, industrious, honest and agreeable, or 
his chance would have done him small good. He 
had the qualities that turn opportunity into gain I’m 
thinking, or he would have been chipping stone in 
Hamilton yet.” 

Nonsense, James ! It’s all luck. David Tanna- 
hill is that fortunate that if you flung him in the 
Clyde, he’d come up with a fish in his hand.” 

“ Luck is an unlucky word, Archy, to be aye on a 
man’s lips ; and I’ve heard say, that luck follows 
them who look for it. One proverb is as good as 
another, you know, until you try them both.” 

Here the young men were joined by some more 
scarlet gowns and square caps, and the conversation 
drifted at once into the approaching examinations, 


Ltuk, 


91 


and the prospect of degrees. Probably neither Archy 
nor James thought again of Tannahill & Co. It was 
one of those incidents so often dropped into life, 
which seems at the time an intruder, and only comes 
to find its connecting link years afterward. 

James took high honors, and then went for a 
pedestrian tour among the Cheviot Hills. He 
wanted recreation, and he wanted solitude to 
consider what road he should now take. He came 
home determined to be a trader, and to accept the 
first good opportunity that offered, no matter 
whether the trading was to be in leather, sewed 
muslins, or Dunlop cheeses. 

“ That is what I have made up my mind to, 
father,” he said very decidedly. 

“ Then I needna show you a letter fra Doctor 
Wilson o’ Edinbro ? It cam’ a week syne ; he was 
vera proud o’ the stan’ ye took i’ your classes, an’ he 
just offers to gie ye his ain profession. But if ye 
think it good to be a merchant, ye dinna want to 
be a doctor.” 

“ Good is good, father, but better carries the day ; 
and I’m for taking Dr. Wilson’s offer.” 

That’s the way laddies ‘ mak’ up their minds ;’ 
but there’s naething to prevent ye changing— only 
ye’ll tak’ notice, that changing an’ bettering dinna 
follow by ony natural law.” 

However, James insisted that a road ready-made 
was better than one to make, and the next week 
saw him studying medicine and surgery with the 
very same enthusiasm with which he had studied 
David and Homer and Horace, Perhaps all -the 


92 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


more intelligently, indeed, for this very reason ; for 
that “ specialty ” is the more complete that draws 
depth and breadth and light from every source 
under heaven. 

About five years afterward. Dr. Wilson looked 
into James’ little office in the Canongate, and 
said : 

“James, how old are you ?’* 

“ I am twenty-six, or thereabouts.” 

“ And how much are you making ?” 

“ Perhaps two hundred pounds a year, Doctor.” 

“ Does that and your future chances here satisfy 
you ?” 

“As long as I can see nothing better to be had.” 

“ I thought so. The Seventh Highlanders sail for 
India next week, and their colonel and I are kin by 
our wives. He asked me to-day about a doctor for 
the post. What do you think of it ?” 

“ The climate is very trying.” 

“ Nothing but alternate doses of tropics and poles 
could ‘ try ' you, James.” 

“ And the salary ? It isn’t much, I dare say.” 

“ Only double what you are making ; but, then, 
there is the local practice, and a native court be- 
sides. The king’s household is somewhere in the 
neighborhood of six hundred people. I should 
think, altogether, that it was better than a street or 
two in Edinburgh.” 

“ A prudent man could find chances, too, to trade 
or speculate a little. Doctor ; there is a prejudice 
against physicians doing that kind of thing here.” 

“ Very properly ; but that is a thing by itself^ 


Luck. 


93 


James ; the main question you’ll give me an answer 
to to-morrow.” 

“No need to wait, Doctor ; I accept. I’ll never 
say ‘ No ’ to the good that comes to me. When do 
we sail ?” 

“ Next Wednesday, by the Indra^ from the Broom^ 
ilaw, Glasgow.” 

So next Wednesday morning Doctor James Laing, 
of the Seventh Highlanders, was waiting at the 
Broomilaw for the tender that was to carry him and 
the troops down the river to the open frith, where 
the Indra lay waiting for them. He was a little 
early, and as it was raining, he sat in the “ noddy ” 
smoking and speculating about the hurrying crowds. 
Presently a figure passed that he knew, and he 
hailed it. It was his old friend and classmate? 
Archy Maxwell. 

“ What are you doing here, James ?” 

“ Waiting for the tender. I sail in the Indra." 

“ Oh, that’s your next move, is it ? When will 
you be back ?” 

“ I cannot tell. I shall work up this event to the 
best of my power. When the next comes, I shall 
be ready for it. What are you doing ?” 

“ With Reid & Thom — their shipping clerk — 
beastly business — but there’s a bit of good luck 
waiting for me, if I could make up my mind to take 
it.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean Robina Baird — she has ten thohsand 
pounds and that nice little place at Ewington.” 

“But I thought you loved that sweet Jenny 


94 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


Burnside ever since you and she played ‘ tag- ’ 
together ?” 

“ Jenny’s poor. A farm and ten thousand pounds, 
with a pretty girl that likes you well, is a bit of 
luck a man can’t afford to throw away.” 

“ I don’t know about that. Is it luck to tyne true 
love for money ? I never was loved as Jenny loved 
you, so, perhaps, I’m no judge: but I think if a 
good bonnie lassie should ever think me worthy of 
it, I’d count that the best of luck that could come to 
me. You are in a good firm. Arch, and have kin 
and friends. It is a small price, is ten thousand 
pounds, for your own and Jenny’s happiness. Take 
a second thought about it.” 

“ Perhaps I might, if it was really a good house to 
me. But I’ve been there all of these years, and still 
at my old desk. There’ve been new hands brought 
in over me, too. I think that’s a shame. Fact is, I 
do too well in my place to be changed ; but if I had 
ten thousand pounds to start me, I could do as well 
for myself as for Reid & Thom.” 

Then the friends parted, and James set his face 
steadily Indiaward, allowing no doubts or regrets or 
hesitation to mar the unity of his purpose. He had 
no time for any, if he had been disposed for them, 
for there was much sickness on board, and still 
more during the march inland, and the acclimating 
of the men. But after a while, things settled into a 
regular groove, and James gathered a large circle 
of p^rons and friends in the fine old city of Agra. 

It did not take him long after this to become 
familiar with thQ “ ius and outs ” of indigo, and the 


Luck, 


95 


seasons in silvered gauzes and wrought muslins. 
People gradually learned that he was a quiet, pru- 
dent speculator, and many suspected that he was 
rapidly growing rich ; but he seldom appeared per- 
sonally in transactions, and, after twelve years’ 
residence in Agra, it was as the physician alone that 
he was known. 

His practice had indeed become very large, and, 
as a natural result, he had made the acquaintance 
of many beautiful women. But he had never fallen 
in love. Some men would have prided themselves 
on the fact. James was rather ashamed of it, and 
often in the self-communing of his lonely cigar tried 
to find out wherein lay the deficiency in his nature. 

One day he received an urgent message to attend 
the daughter of an old Agra trader, whose bunga- 
low was in sight of his own window. He knew the 
moment he saw Marion Hill that love had only 
been waiting for her ; and in the long, low fever 
through which he attended her, she grew to be all 
that he had ever read or imagined woman could be 
to man. 

But Marion was but sixteen, and he was thirty- 
eight. She was rarely beautiful, and delicate as a 
flower ; he was rough and strong, and only hand- 
some in virtue of his strong, purposeful manhood. 
It seemed almost hopeless to hope, and yet it was 
not in James Laing’s nature to stop hoping and 
working for whatever he set before himself as good 
and desirable. 

So he lingered away the sweet, silent hours of 
Marian’s recovery, took her out for slow, cool drives. 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stones. 


and whiled away long hours with many a song and 
romance of the “ Land of old Gaul.” One evening, 
as he sat holding her small, wasted hand in his, 
Marion said : 

Doctor, papa intends to send me to Scotland as 
soon as I am able to travel ; do you think it best ?” 

“ It is the very best thing for you.” 

“ But what shall I do without you ?” 

“ Would you like me to go, too ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then I shall go. I have been thinking of it for 
two years. I was only waiting for some one to ask 
me.” 

It was in the arrangementspending Marian’s jour- 
ney to Scotland, that the almost forgotten name of 
David Tannahill again fell on James Laing’s ear. 
First, he was asked by a wealthy Agra manufacturer 
to take charge of an unusually valuable consignment 
to the great Glasgow firm ; and secondly, it came 
out that David’s wife was Marian’s aunt, and that it 
was with her she would stay. So, with this double 
claim upon his remembrance, James recalled readily 
enough the big granite warerooms, and the story 
Archy Maxwell had told him of the Hamilton stone- 
mason. 

Yet purposes work so dimly and slowly that even 
then he had no conception that within one year he 
would have married David Tannahill’s niece and 
become the partner of the famous Oriental trader^ 
The promise Marian and he made each other as they 
stood, hand in hand, watching the gradual revel- 
ation of the Scotch shore, was the first step to this. 



“ ONLY THIS ONCE 1”— Page 111. 





Luck, 


97 


The second was the tact, prudence and intimate 
knowledge of Indian affairs which James gradually 
developed in his business relations with the house 
of Tannahill & Co. 

He had been at home about two years when he 
met in the exchange, one day, a person he knew 
well, in spite of many adverse changes — Archy Max- 
well. Archy was only too glad to find a friend who 
would listen to his plans and his complaints, and he 
poured them fully out into James’ ear. He had 
married Robina Baird, and gone into business with 
her money ; but there had been a combination of 
Glasgow shippers to destroy him ; every one had 
wronged and injured him ; and, of course, he had 
failed. Then an uncle had taken him into partner, 
ship. Archy said he had imposed on his good nature 
unpardonably, and the two had quarreled and sepa- 
rated on very bitter terms. Then he had made a 
great deal of money in railway scrip and lost it all 
in mining. Then his wife’s aunt had left them a 
completely furnished hotel, doing a splendid busi- 
ness. He had tried to run it himself, and failed dis- 
astrously. But he had had a windfall from his 
Caledonian shares, and bought heavily in the Ayr 
Iron Company stock ; that, he was sure, would 
retrieve all errors and losses ; and, in the meantime, 
would James lend him twenty pounds ? 

James looked at the half-shabby man, with his 
nervous, apologizing manners and sanguine talk, 
and, sadly enough, made him free for the time of his 
purse. 

‘‘ But Archy,” he said, “the best thing for you is 


98 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


steady work, with a steady income. Will you take 
it, if I give it you ?’' 

No ; I’ll try my luck a little longer. ‘ It’s a long 
lane that has no turning.” 

“ Better take my offer, Arch5^’” 

“ Not yet ; not yet. Thank you all the same, 
James. You’ve been a lucky fellow — ” 

Stop one moment, Archy. You have been a much 
luckier fellow than I have. No one ever gave me 
ten thousand pounds. No one ever left me a hotel. 
I had no uncle to take me into partnership without 
a shilling. I paid forty thousand pounds for my 
share in the house of Tannahill & Co., every pound 
the result of a careful, prudent cultivation of such 
opportunities as opened up on my path. If you are 
going to do any better, you must trust to something 
else than luck.” 

*‘Oh, I’m not down-hearted, James. Good for- 
tune will come tapping at my door some day.” 

“ And the first question she will ask will be : ^ Is 

Wisdom within f Good fortune taps at many a 
door, but she never goes in to stay^ unless there are a 
tew sensible virtues inside to entertain her.” 



MARY'S MARRIAGE. 


Many years ago, I stayed a while in an old cathe- 
dral town in the richest and loveliest part of York- 
shire. Such quaint old houses, roofed with bright 
red tiles, such green meadows and yellow cornfields, 
such great overshadowing trees, and such sweet old. 
fashioned gardens, I shall never see again. But the 
great charm to my young fancy was the solemn old 
cathedral, and the cool, silent courts of houses that 
clustered round it. The dreamy, peaceful life 
enchanted me. I thought that I could live forever 
among the dim aisles of the grand old church and 
the shady gardens of the handsome houses. 

“ This is a court of peace,” I said. ‘‘ Surely no 
shadow of discontent or sorrow can ever come 
within it.” 

But this I said in my haste and my ignorance. At 
the end of the first week of my visit, as I was wan- 
dering in my friend’s garden, which touched the 
graveyard of the cathedral, I heard the wildest, 
strangest, most sorrowful music coming from it. I 
knew the vesper service was over. I knew this was 
not the organist’s playing, and my interest and curb 

t??J 


lOO 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


osity triumphed over my fear, and led me to take the 
keys of the vestry, which were at my command, and 
satisfy myself. No human cry of agony was ever 
more intelligible. I divined at once that some poor 
breaking heart was pouring out itself into the Divine 
ear, which understands all speech and language, 
and so I stole away again, ashamed and sorry for 
my intrusion. 

Frequently, after this — sometimes early in the 
morning, sometimes deep in the gloaming — I heard 
the same musician. At last I spoke to the friend 
with whom I was staying. She looked troubled as 
she answered : 

“ It is the poor old dean. I am glad he has this 
consolation. Do not disturb him.” 

A few days afterward, as we were walking up the 
court, we met the dean. He begged my friend to 
go into his house and see his daughter Mary ; and 
then I soon understood what mighty grief it was 
which had struck the key-note of his passionate, 
pleading prayer. 

She was dying ; no one but a parent could have 
doubted it for one minute. The ernest of eternity 
was in her eyes, which looked as if they had seen 
some vision that had forever separated her from 
time. She lay upon a couch drawn close to the open 
window, looking into a garden thick with green 
shade, and bright with many a sweet flower whose 
name is now forgotten. I gazed on her with admi- 
ration. I do not think it ever entered my mind to 
pity her. I reserved that feeling for the gray 
misery of her father, and for the hopeless, resentful- 


Mary s Marriage, 


lOI 


looking distress I saw in the face and manner of a 
handsome man whom I took to be her brother. 
There was, however, some element in the sorrow 
of that dying room that I did not understand then ; 
though soon afterward, when I knew Mary Harlowe’s 
history, it was clear enough for me. 

She was the only child of her father, who had 
received her in exchange for his young wife’s life. 
Among the silent rooms of the great house, and in 
the pleasant old gardens belonging to the church 
property, she had grown up to a sweet and lovely 
girlhood. 

When about seventeen years of age, her cousin, 
Bernard Harlowe, was sent to her father’s care 
while he prepared for taking orders. The young man 
was not rich, and was never likely to have any inher- 
itance but the handsome person, the clear head and 
the warm heart nature had given him. But Mary 
loved him almost from the first day of his arrival, 
and Bernard thought himself richer in that love than 
the bishop in his see, or king in his crown. 

The dean was not so wrapped up in spiritual 
matters as to be oblivious of what was transpiring 
under his own roof, yet he made no remonstrance ; 
so, though there was no positive engagement, Ber- 
nard and Mary Harlowe considered themselves as 
one heart and soul for time and for eternity. 

One afternoon, the sunny stillness of the court 
was broken by the galloping of horses and the rattle 
of a carriage. It stopped at the dean’s door, and 
Bernard recognized a young earl, famous for his 


102 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


wealth and church patronage, who owned a magni- 
ficent seat about three miles distant. 

“ There is some dispute between my lord bishop 
and the earl,” he said to Mary. “ I wonder how the 
dean will manage between them ?” 

But the earl’s visit seemed to them a matter of the 
very smallest importance. Wandering under the 
trees, pulling ripe berries, or idly gathering some 
fiowers fairer than all its mates, they did not even 
speculate on the length of his visit or watch for his 
departure ; it was therefore with some sui-prise they 
saw him and the dean come slowly walking down 
the main avenue together. 

Mary would have escaped the interview by taking 
a private walk to the house, but Bernard, with some 
strange instinct of being on the defensive, drew her 
arm through his and waited their approach. The 
dean seemed annoyed at the attitude. He introduced 
his daughter and his nephew, and then bid Mary 
“ go and prepare for dinner, which the Earl Grey,” 
he added, bowing, “ will do me the honor to eat with 
me.” 

The young nobleman languidly assented, follow- 
ing Mary with his eyes until she was hidden from 
view by the shrubbery. Surely “ loving and hating 
by nature,” for ere the earl had spoken, Bernard 
hated him ; and long before the night was over, he 
fancied he had good cause to do so. 

He was angry at Mary for looking so beautiful ; 
he was angry at the earl for looking at her beauty. 
He thought his uncle disgustingly subservient to 
the young man’s rank ; he thought Mary unusually 


Mary s Marriage. 


103 


cool to himself. All night long he was his own 
tormentor, and this was but the beginning of sor- 
rows. 

The earl, charmed with Mary’s fresh young 
beauty, so different from that of the clever, in- 
triguing women with whom he had danced and trifled 
away all the last season, fancied himself deeply in 
love with the simple, innocent girl. He came again 
and again, at first inventing all sorts of excuses, 
finally without any excuse at all. 

It required, indeed, small persuasion to obtain 
the dean’s full permission to woo his daughter. 
Then stormy scenes ensued ; uncle and nephew 
came to bitterest strife, while Mary’s defense of 
Bernard only brought on her such anger from her 
father as filled her with grief and fear. 

Poor Bernard ! The end his heart had prophesied 
came soon enough. In the presence of the dean, 
there was a cruel, formal parting ; under the silent 
stars, amid the thick shrubbery of the garden, there 
was another parting. Then two young hearts said 
the words which doomed one to an empty life, and 
the other to a splendid tomb. 

Mary would have promised constancy, but Ber- 
nard would not let her do it. 

“You shall never have to reproach yourself with 
broken promises for my sake, darling,” he said. 
“What 'Could you, you poor timid little dove, do 
between your father and that authoritative earl? 
But whatever they make you do, remember, Mary, 
I shall never blame you, and I will love you until 
my last conscious breath.” 


104 


Mrs, Barr s Short Stories. 


Then he kissed her pale face over and over, 
tenderly, clingingly, as- we kiss the dead, and left 
her. Mary, almost heart-broken with grief, and 
faint with terror lest she should be discovered, could 
only wave her hands in mute farewell, for she knew 
now that love and her must walk apart forever. 

Bernard went to Oxford, and Mary became 
Countess Grey, and went whithersoever it pleased 
her husband to take her. She was naturally affec- 
tionate, and would doubtless have became a loving 
and gentle wife, if she had received any encourage- 
ment. But she soon outlived the earl’s short liking, 
and then he seemed to find pleasure only in those 
petty cruelties which unloving husbands above all 
others understand. 

One of these was to affect the most unbounded 
chagrin at the sex of her first child, to sneer at all 
daughters, and to send it from its mother’s breast to 
the care of a strange nurse. Another was to pre- 
tend she needed exercise and change of air, and 
remove her from London to the Continent before 
she was able to bear the fatigue. He gave her no 
rest until she reached Rome, and here she became 
so seriously ill that even her servants remonstrated 
against the cruelty of moving her further. 

In Rome, she remained six months, nearly alone. 
The earl traveled hither and thither, as his fancy 
led him, making his wife only occasional short 
visits, of a cruelly ceremonious character. His life 
of extravagant dissipation was a shameful contrast 
to the loneliness and absolute seclusion which her 
Italian physician ordered, while her separation from 


Mary s Marriage, 


105 


all who loved or cared for her and her longing for 
her native land and home told fearfully upon her 
failing health. 

But one day a far more cruel sorrow faced her. 
A letter without signature was placed in her hands, 
not only accusing her husband of the most flagrant 
disregard for her, but also intimating that her phy- 
sician was in the employ of her enemies, and not a 
safe person to be intrusted -with her life. 

She had long felt sure that she was dying, but the 
dread of dying away from her child, her father and 
her home, overcame all other fears. This terror 
made her prudent ; she arranged for an immediate 
return home, and took advantage of her husband’s 
first absence to commence it. 

For him, she left a pathetic letter, entreating him 
Hot to follow her, forgiving all his positive and neg- 
ative cruelties, and asking only to be permitted to 
die beside her father and their child. 

Her requests so completely agreed with the earl’s 
desires, that for once he did not thwart her ; and 
so, two years after this ill-starred marriage, Earl 
Grey’s traveling carriage again broke the silence 
of the peaceful cathedral court. The dean’s 
daughter had come back to him wearing something 
higher than a countess’s coronet ; she had received 
the signet of immortality, and been anointed for a 
heavenly coronation. 

After Mary’s marriage, the dean had gone to see 
his nephew, and easily induced him to come back 
with him ; so it was Bernard that lifted Mary from 
her carriage and carried her in his strong arms to 


io6 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


the room she never left again ; and it was Bernard 
that rode day and night so that he might bring 
a few hours earlier the child which was to comfort 
Mary’s dying hours. 

In order to excuse the step she had taken, and 
procure her father’s promise to keep her little 
daughter, she had been compelled to divulge all the 
cruel martyrdom of her married .life. After this 
revelation, it was not hard to understand the dean’s 
wretched look, and his passionate, pleading prayers, 
and the music which was an articulate agony, I 
could understand, too, now, the angry, longing look 
on Bernard’s face, and his miserable restlessness ; 
but neither of the men showed, in Mary’s presence, 
any feeling which could mar the peace of her 
descent into the grave. 

I went often to see her the next few months. It 
was like lying with her at “ the Gate Beautiful” of 
Heaven. I used to wonder at her loveliness, and 
rejoice in her sure and certain hope, but I never 
pitied her. As I said before, I kept that feeling for 
the hopeless grief of the old man, and the bitter 
sorrow of the young one. 

Just before Christmas, I went over to the dean's, 
after an absence of three days. Despair and 
remorse were sitting in the handsome chambers 
and a slow but certain sorrow creeping up the marble 
stairs. The next day a narrow coffin had separated 
father and daughter, mother and child, husband and 
wife, lover and beloved, as effectually and as widely 
as all the starry spaces. 

No one can step in between two loving hearts 


Mary’s Marriage, 


107 


without guilt ; and when love is slain for gold or 
rank, it has bitter avengers. 

Neither, I think should 

“ Love stoop to love, like prince to lord 

but, rather, love should meet love upon an equal 
marriage plane, ^ 


“ And kiss like crowned kings. 



Over the solemn mountains and the misty moor- 
lands, the chill, spring night was falling. David 
Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister, 
thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch 
bonnet over his brows, and taking his staff in his 
hand, turned his face to the hills. 

David Scott was a mystic in his own way ; the 
mountains were to him “ temples not made with 
hands,” and in them he had seen and heard wonder- 
ful things. Years of silent communion with nature 
had made him love her in all her moods, and he 
passionately believed in God. 

The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep 
knew the shepherd’s voice, and the peculiar bark of 
his dog ; they answered them gladly, and were soon 
safely and warmly housed. Then David and 
Keeper slowly took their way homeward, for the 
steep, rocky hills were not easy walking for an old 
man in the late gloaming. 

Passing a wild cairn of immense stones. Keeper 
suddenly began to bark furiously, and a tall, slight 
figure leaped from their shelter, raised a stick, and 
would have struck the dog if David had not called 
out : 


[108] 


“ Only This Once, 


109 


“ Never strike a sheep-dog-, mon ! The beastie 
wilna harm ye. ” 

The stranger then came forward ; asked David if 
there was any cottage near where he could rest all 
night ; said he had come out for a day’s fishing, had 
got separated from his companions, lost his way, and 
was hungry and worn out. 

David looked him steadily in the face and read 
aright the nervous manner and assumed indifference. 
However, hospitality is a sacred tradition among 
Scotch mountaineers ; whoever or whatever the 
young man was, David acknowledged his weariness 
and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oaten cake 
and his embers. 

It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple 
was not used to the hills. David’s long, firm walk 
was beyond the young man’s efforts ; he stumbled 
frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary 
■when they came to the heather distressed him ; he 
was almost afraid of the gullies David took without 
a thought. These things the old man noted, and 
they weighed far more with him than all the boast- 
ful tongue could say. 

The cottage was soon reached — a very humble 
one— only “ a but and a ben,” with small windows, 
and a thatched roof ; but Scotland has reared great 
men in such cottages, and no one could say that it 
vras not clean and cheerful. The fire burned 
brightly upon the white hearth-stone, and a little 
round, deal table stood before it. ‘Upon this table 
were oaten cakes and Ayrshire cheese and new 
milk, and by its side sat a young man reading. 


no 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


“ Archie, here is a strange gentleman I found up 
at Donald’s cairn.” 

The two youths exchanged looks, and disliked 
each other. Yet Archie Scott rose, laid aside his 
book and courteously offered his seat by the fire. 
The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple 
meal, joined decently in the solemn worship, and 
was soon fast asleep in Archie’s bed. Then the old 
man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged 
their opinions. 

I don’t like yon lad, fayther, and I more than 
mistrust his being aught o’ a gentleman.” 

David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he 
replied : 

He’s eat and drank and knelt wi’ us, Archie, and 
it’s nane o’ our duty to judge him.” 

When Archie spoke again, it was of other matters. 

“ Fayther, I’m sore troubled wi’ MacAllister’s 
accounts ; what wi’ the sheep bills, and the timber, 
and the kelp, things look in a mess like. There is 
a right way and a wrong way to keep tally o’ them, 
and I can’t find it out.” 

The right way is to keep the facts all correct 
and honest to a straw’s worth, then the figures are 
bound to come right, I should say.” 

It was an old trouble that Archie complained 
about. He was MacAllister’s steward, appointed 
by virtue of his sterling character and known 
worth ; but struggling constantly with ignorance of 
the methods by which even the most honest business 
can alone satisfactorily prove its honest condition. 

When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie 


Only This OnceT 


III 


had disappeared, and David was standing in the 
door, smoking. David liked his guest less in the 
morning than he had done at night. 

‘‘ Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir,” said 
David, rather grimly. 

Mr. Semple said he really had never been accus- 
tomed to anything but strong tea and hot rolls, with 
a little kippered salmon or marmalade ; he had 
never tasted porridge before. 

More’s the pity, my lad. Maybe, if you had 
been brought up on decent oat-meal, you would 
hae thankit God for your food for Mr. Semple’s 
omission of grace, either before or after his meat, 
greatly displeased the old man. 

The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and 
looked out. There was a fresh wind, bringing with 
it flying showers, and damp, chilling mists — wet 
heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David 
saw something in the anxious, wretched face that 
aroused keen suspicion. He looked steadily in Mr. 
Semple’s pale blue eyes, and said : 

“ Wha’ are you rinnin’ awa’ from, my lad ?” 

“ Sir !” 

There was a moment’s angry silence. Suddenly 
David raised his hand, shaded his eyes, and peered 
keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followed this 
movement with great interest. 

What are you looking at, Mr. Scott ? Oh ! I 
see. Two men coming up this way. Do you know 
who they are ?” 

They may be gaugers, or they may be strangers, 


I 12 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


or they may be policemen — I dinna ken them 
mysel’.” 

“ Mr. Scott ! For God’s sake, Mr. Scott ! Don’t 
give me up, and I will tell you the whole truth.” 

“ I thought so !” said David, sternly. “ Well, 
come up the hills wi’ me ; yon men will be here in 
ten minutes, whoever they are.” 

There were numerous places of partial shelter 
known to the shepherd, and he soon led the way to 
a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by overhanging 
rocks and trailing briery stems. 

The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and 
the elder having waited until his companion had 
regained his breath, said : 

“ You’ll fare best wi’ me, lad, if you tell the truth 
in as few words as maybe ; I dinna like fine 
speeches.” 

“ Mr. Scott, I an Duncan Nevin’s bookkeeper and 
cashier. He’s a tea dealer in the Gallo wgate of 
Glasgow. I’m short in my cash, and he’s a hard 
man ; so I ran away.” 

“ Sortie, lad ! Your cash didna gang wrang o’ 
itself. If you werna ashamed to steal it, ye needna 
be ashamed to confess it. Begin at the beginning.” 

The young man told his shameful story. He had 
got into gay, dissipated ways, and, to meet a sudden 
demand, had taken three pounds from his employer 
for just once y But the three pounds had swollen 
into sixteen, and, finding it impossible to replace 
them, he had taken ten more and fled, hoping to hide 
in the hills till he could get rowed off to some pass- 
ing ship and escape to America. He had no 


" Only This OnceT 


friends, and neither father nor mother. At mention 
of this fact, David’s face relaxed. 

Puir lad !” he muttered. “ Nae father, and nae 
mother, ’specially ; that’s a’ awfu’ drawback,” 

“ You may give me up if you like, Mr. Scott. I 
don’t care much. I’ve been a wretched fellow for 
many a week. I am most broken-hearted to-day.” 

It’s not David Scott that will make himself hard 
to a broken heart, when God in Heaven has promised 
to listen to it. I’ll tell you what I will do : You 
s’all gie me all the money you have — every shilling ; 
it’s nane o’ yours ; ye ken that weel ; and I’ll take 
it to your master, and get him to pass by the ither 
till you can earn it. I’ve got a son, a decent, hard- 
working lad, who’s daft to learn your trade — book- 
keeping. Ye s’all stay wi’ me till he kens a’ the ins 
and outs o’ it ; then I’ll gie ye twenty pounds. I 
ken weel this is a big sum, and it will make a big 
hole in my little book at the Ayr Bank, but it will 
set Archie up. 

“ Then, when ye have earned it, ye can pay back 
all you have stolen, forbye having four pounds left 
for a nest-egg to start again wi’. I dinna often treat 
mysel’ to such a bit o’ charity as this, and, ’deed, if I 
getna mair thanks fra Heaven than I seem like to 
get fra you, there’ud be meikle use in it for Alex- 
ander Semple had heard the proposal with a dour 
and thankless face, far from encouraging to the 
good man w^ho made it. It did not suit that youth to 
work all summer in order to pay back what he had 
come to regard as “ off his mind to denude himself 
of every shilling, and be entirely dependent on the 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


114 


sternly just man before him. Yet what could he do ? 
He was fully in David’s power ; so he signified his 
assent, and sullenly enough gave up the 14^. 2d. 
in his possession. 

“ I’m a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott,” he said ; 

“ the bargain is fair enough for you.” 

“ I ken Donald Nevin ; he’s a Campletown man, 
and I ken you wouldna hae keepit his books if you 
hadna had your business at your finger ends.” 

The next day David went to Glasgow, and saw 
Mr. Semple’s master. The nine pounds odd were lost 
money found, and predisposed him to the arrange- 
ment urged. David got little encouragement from 
Mr. Nevin, however ; he acknowledged the clerk’s 
skill in accounts, but said he was conceited of his 
appearance, ambitious of being a fashionable man, 
had weak principles, and was intensely selfish. 
David almost repented him of his kindness, and 
counted grudgingly the shillings that the journey 
and the carriage of Mr. Semple’s trunks cost him. 

Indeed, it was a week or two before things settled 
pleasantly in the hill cottage ; the plain living, pious 
habits and early hours of the shepherd and his son’ 
did not at all suit the city youth. But Archie, 
though ignorant of the reasons which kept such a 
dandy in their humble home, soon perceived clearly 
the benefit he could derive from him. And once 
Archie got an inkling of the meaning of “ double- 
entry,” he was never weary of applying it to his 
own particular business ; so that in a few weeks 
Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar with Ma,C' 
Allister’s affairs. 


Only This O^iceT 


115 


Still, Archie cordially disliked his teacher, and 
about the middle of summer it became evident that 
a very serious cause of quarrel was complicating the 
offense. Coming up from MacAllister’s one lovely 
summer gloaming, Archie met Semple with Katie 
Morrison, the little girl whom he had loved and 
courted ever since he carried her dinner and slate 
to school for her. How they had come to know 
each other he could not tell ; he ha dexercised all his 
tact and prudence to prevent it, evidently without 
avail. He passed the couple with ill-concealed 
anger. Katie looked down, Semple nodded in what 
Archie believed to be an insolent manner. 

That night, David Scott heard from his son such 
an outburst of anger as the lad had never before 
exhibited. In a few days Mr. Semple went to 
Greenock for a day or two. Soon it was discovered 
that Katie had been in Greenock two days, at her 
married sister’s. Then they heard that the couple 
had married, and were to sail for America. They 
then discovered that Archie’s desk had been opened, 
and forty-six pounds in notes and gold had been 
taken. Neither of the men had any doubt as to the 
thief ; and therefore Archie was angry and aston- 
ished to find his father doubt and waver, and seem 
averse to pursue him. At last he acknowledged all ; 
told Archie that if he made known his loss, he also 
must confess that he had knowingly harbored an 
acknowledged thief, and tacitly given him the 
opportunity of wronging his employer. He doubted 
very much whether any one would give him credit 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


1 16 


for the better feelings which had led him to this 
course of conduct. 

Archie’s anger cooled at once. He saw the 
dilemma. To these simple people a good name was 
better than gold. It took nearly half the savings of 
a long life, but the old man went to Ayr and drew 
sufficient to replace the stolen money. He needed 
to make no inquiries about Semple. On Tuesday it 
was known by every one in the village that Katie 
Morrison and Alexander Semple had been married 
the previous Friday, and sailed for America the 
next day. After this certainty, father and son 
named the subject but once more. It was on one 
calm, spring evening, some ten years after, and 
David lay within an hour of the grave. 

“ Archie !” he said, suddenly, “ I don’t regret to- 
night what I did ten years ago. Virtuous actions 
sometimes fail, but virtuous lives — never ! Perhaps 
I had a thought o’ self in my good intent, and that 
spoiled all. If thou hast ever a chance, do better 
than I did.” 

“ I will, father.” 

During these ten years there had been occasional 
news from the exiles. Mrs. Morrison stopped 
Archie at intervals as he passed her door, and said 
there had been a letter from Katie. At first they 
came frequently, and were tinged with brightest 
hopes. Alexander had a fine place, and their baby 
was the most beautiful in the world. The next 
news was that Alexander was in business for him- 
self and making money rapidly. Handsome 
presents, that were the wonder of the village, then 


“ Only This Oncel'^ 


117 


came occasionally, and also remittances of money 
that made the poor mother hold her head proudly 
about “our Katie” and her “splendid house and 
carriage.” 

But suddenly all letters stopped, and the mother 
thought for long they must be coming to see her, 
but this hope and many another faded, and the fair 
morning of Katie's marriage anniversary was 
shrouded in impenetrable gloom and mystery. 

Archie got bravely over his trouble, and awhile 
after his father’s death married a good little woman, 
not quite without “the bit siller.” Soon after he 
took his savings to Edinburgh and joined his wife’s 
brother in business there. Things prospered with 
him, slowly but surely, and he became known for a 
steady, prosperous merchant, and a douce pious 
householder, the father of a fine lot of sons and. 
daughters. 

One night, twenty years after the beginning of 
my story, he was passing through the old town of 
Edinburgh, when a wild cry of “ Fire ! fire ! fire I” 
arose on every side of him. 

“Where?” he asked of the shrieking women 
pouring from all the filthy, narrow wynds around. 

“ In Gordon’s Wynd.” 

He was there almost the first of any efficient aid, 
striving to make his way up the smoke-filled stairs, 
but this was impossible. The house was one of 
those ancient ones, piled story upon story, so old that 
it was almost tinder. But those on the opposite 
side were so close that not unfrequently a plank or 
two flung across from opposite windows made a 


ii8 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


bridge for the benefit of those seeking to elude 
justice. 

By means of such a bridge, all the inhabitants of 
the burning house were removed, and no one was 
more energetic in carrying the women and children 
across the dangerous planks than Archie Scott ; for 
his mountain training had made such a feat one of 
no extraordinary danger to him. Satisfied at length 
that all life was out of risk, he was turning to go 
home, when a white, terrible face looked out of the 
topmost floor, showing itself amid the gusts of 
smoke like the dream of a corpse, and screaming for 
help in agonizing tones. Archie knew that face 
only too well. But he remembered, in the same 
instant, what his father had said in dying, and, swift 
as a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top floor 
of the opposite house again. 

In a few moments, the planks bridged the distance 
between death and safety ; but no entreaties could 
make the man risk the dangerous passage. Setting 
tight his lips, Archie went for the shrieking coward, 
and carried him into the opposite house. Then the 
saved man recognized his preserver. 

“ Oh, Mr. Scott !” he said, for God’s sake, my 
wife and my child ! The last of seven !” 

“ You scoundrel ! Do you mean to say you saved 
yourself before Katie and your child ?” 

Archie did not wait for the answer ; again he was 
at the window of the burning room. Too late ! 
The flames were already devouring what the smoke 
had smothered ; their wretched pallet was a funeral 


"'Only This OnceT ii9 


pyre. He had hardly time to save his own life. 
“ They are dead, Semple !” 

Then the poor creature burst into a paroxysm of 
grief, moaned and cried, and begged a few shillings 
and vowed he was the most miserable creature on 
earth. 

After this, Archie Scott strove for two years to do 
without taint of selfishness, what his father had 
begun twenty years before. But there was not 
much now left to work upon — health, honor, self- 
respect were all gone. Poor Semple was content to 
eat the bread of dependence, and then make boast- 
ful speeches of his former wealth and position. To 
tell of his wonderful schemes, and to abuse his luck 
and his false friends, and everything and everybody 
but the real cause of his misfortune. 

Archie gave him some trifling post, with a salary 
sufficient for every decent want, and never heeded, 
though he knew Semple constantly spoke ill of him 
behind his back. 

However, the trial of Archie’s patience and prom- 
ise did not last very long. It was a cold, snowy 
night in mid-winter that Archie was called upon to 
exercise for the last time his charity and forbear- 
ance toward him ; and the parting scene paid for 
all. For in the shadow of the grave, the poor, 
struggling soul dropped all pretenses, acknowledged 
all its shortcomings, thanked the forbearance and 
charity which had been extended so many years, 
and humbly repented it of its lost and wasted oppor- 
tunities. 

“ Draw close to me, Archie Scott,” he said, " and 


120 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


tell your four brave boys what my dying words 
to them were : Never to yield to temptation for 
only this once. To be quite sure that all the gear 
and gold that come with sin will go with sorrow. And 
never to doubt that to every evil doer will certainly 
come his evil day.” 



Miss Belle Pascal was thinking about getting 
dressed for dinner. The “ thinking " took her gen- 
erally about one hundred and twenty minutes to 
complete. No wonder ! Who would not bask and 
think lying in glorious sunshine, filtered through 
green leaves, and drowsy with warmth and perfume ? 
Besides, she was watching the humming-birds 
flashing in and out among the purple flowers of the 
China trees, or hiding in the golden cups of the 
nasturtiums. The listless spell of such delicious 
do-nothing, such love-in-idleness, is not an easy one 
to break. 

This was in ante-bellum times, and softly moving 
about the room was a woman of great though 
mature beauty ; a mulatto, rather dusky than 
yellow, broad -browed and pensive-eyed, with great 
gold hoops in her ears and bright bands of the same 
metal around her arms. She looked wistfully, 
almost impatiently, at the dreaming girl as she laid 
out muslins, laces and ribbons ; finally she broke the 
long silence with ; ‘‘ It’s done struck five o’clock. Miss 
Belle.” 


[I2I] 


122 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


“ Hurry up, then, Queen. What time this even- 
ing did Jack say to expect him ?” 

Seven, percisely, honey ; and don’t you go for 
to break dis ’p’intment. True lub nebber knock 
twice ober any gal’s door.” 

Belle sighed and shrugged her shoulders. 

“ True love. Queen, is always poor and condra- 
dictory ; seems to me he might have learned a 
sensible thing or two after six thousand years’ 
experience.” 

True lub am always young, chile,” said Queen, 
loftily ; “ an’ you’d better be a-dressing.” 

Two hours later Belle stood under a hedge of 
myrtle trees, watching her lover approach. “ The 
low sun makes the color,” and he was just low 
enough to flood her golden hair, fair face and shim- 
mering robes with all sorts of shifting splendor. 
Divinely fair, and most divinely tall, she stood like 
some ancient goddess in a sacred grove. Jack, so 
brave, so bold and self-asserting among men, abso- 
lutely feared to approach this girl of seventeen 
summers. To-night, especially so, for he knew the 
next few minutes must decide, in a great measure, 
the future current of his life. 

It argued well for his hopes, that she came with 
smiles to meet him — it gave him all the courage he 
needed ; he could take her hand, and read his happi- 
ness in the sweet, drooping eyes and tender mouth. 
Then he drew her to his heart, called her “ Sweet 
Belle !” “My darling !” “ My love !” “ My own 
love !” It is indeed wonderful how soon a lover 
that is given an inch will take a mile ! 


A Southern Temper, 123 


In a few minutes Jack could even venture on 
reproaches : How could she encourage that hateful 
Stephen Latrobe ? 

“ I do not, Jack," Belle answered. 

“ I saw you walking with him under the 1 ive oak 
in the lower lot, last night." 

“ Where were you ?" 

“ I met Nellie Brand at the post-office, and I was 
walking home with her." 

“ Consistency, thy name is man ! Sir, how can 
you encourage that hateful Nellie Brand ? I don’t 
think Satan reproving sin is a very edifying spec- 
tacle, Jack." ♦ 

“A gentleman is obliged to be civil to every 
lady." 

“ A lady is obliged to be civil to every gentleman. 
Come, Jack, don’t be jealous ; it is a very poor com- 
pliment to pay any woman you love. I shall expect 
implicit confidence. I won’t be doubted under any 
circumstances." 

All right, darling. Only Stephen Latrobe will 
have to stop mooning around your walks, or else — ’’ 

“ Jack, I’ll have no quarreling over me. The man 
who draws a knife or fires a pistol about Belle Pascal 
does her an unpardonable wrong. She is not the 
girl to think it an honor to be discussed over bad 
whiskey at corner stores, and have her name hawked 
about in the newspapers ; and I wouldn’t marry a 
man who so humbled me ; no, not even if I loved 
him as well as I love — ^Jack Manners." 

The effect of the simile on Jack will be understood 
by all lovers. There was, indeed, no audible reply. 


124 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


but such exalted mortals have ways of expression 
supremely intelligible to themselves. Ah, me ! that 
ever they should forget them ! That ever love’s 
sweet symbols should become a dead language ! 

They had come to a little clearing in the wood, 
round as a fairy ring, with a tiny sheet of water in 
the center. The moonlight lay like a broad silver 
ribbon of light across it, and in its soft glow the 
great white magnolias had such a spiritual look that 
it seemed a kind of sacrilege to Belle when Jack 
thoughtlessly broke one from its stem. 

“ Oh !” she said, pitifully. “ Have you not heard 
Queen say they are the souls of little babies } I 
always want to kiss them, but it feels like murder to 
pull them. Don’t give it to me. Jack ; I am super- 
stitious about them.” 

Jack looked uncomfortably at the glorious white 
cup with its golden jchalice throwing up incense to 
heaven, and then gently laid it upon the mossy 
ground at the foot of the tree. The incident, simple 
as it was, completely changed the tone of their con- 
versation. Serious plans for the future were dis- 
cussed, and a new and thoughtful sense of the 
solemnity of their promise to each other filled both 
hearts with gravity. 

“ You will never desert or deceive me. Belle, dar- 
ling !” said Jack, with almost a tremor of terror in 
his voice, “ for if you should — ” 

“ But I never shall.” 

Don’t think me unreasonable, pet, but just 
promise me now that you will never marry that 
detestable Stephen Latrobe.” 


125 


A Southern Temper, 


“ I promise you that, too, Jack. Now are you 
satisfied ?” 

“Not quite ; if you would only promise never to 
marry any one but me. Am I selfish ?” 

“ I think so — just a little ; but that is the mistake 
of your sex. Never mind, I promise it with all my 
soul. I will love you Jack and only you — ” 

“ Till death parts us.” 

“Ah, longer than that, dear! Love projects 
itself beyond the grave. I will love you. Jack, no 
matter what your faults, or your destiny, forever.” 

He had nothing to answer with but caresses. 
His eyes were full of happy tears. He tasted in 
that moment a joy that sweetened all his after-life. 
They parted there. Jack turned when he had gone 
a few paces, and saw her standing in the full moon- 
light watching him. He took in all her loveliness 
at a glance ; but he could not see the strange dejec- 
tion that had suddenly fallen upon her, although it 
unconsciously influenced her attitude. She had 
descended the piazza stairs a step or two again, her 
arms had fallen to her sides, her whole figure was 
listless and sorrowful. 

Ere Jack made the turn which would shut her 
from his sight, he stood still a moment and lifted 
his hat. A strange impulse moved Belle ; she 
stretched out her arms ; she called him softly back^ 
But he did not see the action, nor catch the recall. 
The last effort of his more propitious fate was past 
It had failed. He turned with joy and triumph into 
the road which was to lead him to long sorrow and 
disappointment. 


126 


Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


Had he lingered by Belle’s side a few minutes 
longer ; had he taken one road instead of another, 
he might have missed his evil fate. But no one can 
be stronger or wiser than Destiny. Jack looked at 
his watch ; it was only half-past nine. He would 
go and tell Will Cannon, for Jack had one of those 
natures whose happiness is doubled by being 
shared ; and Will had always clung closer than a 
brother to him. He had to pass the hotel, but the 
lighted, crowded office did not tempt him to-night, 
even though he knew it was the scene of an exciting 
political discussion. 

He had passed the door, when Stephen Latrobe 
hailed him. He turned mechanically ; a little group 
was already on the sidewalk. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Stephen, in a scoffing tone, 
here is a Daniel come to judgment. When in 
doubt, address yourselves to young lawyers ; they 
know everything.” 

Stephen had been drinking, and Jack saw in a 
moment that he was in danger of a quarrel. He 
made an instant resolve not to be provoked into 
one ; he fortified himSelf with the positive words of 
Belle on this very subject. So he took up the taunt 
as a piece of pleasant raillery, and replied : 

Don’t forget, though, that lawyers charge for 
their advice.” 

“ By Jove ! I know that to my cost,” said a litigi- 
ous planter. The law is the only thing that ever 
dared to oppose me. It makes me both pay and 
obey. Hang lawyers I” 


A Southern Temper. 


127 


“ With all my heart,” said Stephen. “ They are 
in everybody’s way.” 

“ Let me pass, Mr. Latrobe. I can afford to be 
generous to you to-night.” 

It was an unfortunate boast. Jack’s radiant face 
gave Stephen the key to its meaning, and he flew 
at his rival as a hound flies at his victim. 

You ! you little pettifogger ! You can afford 
to be generous to Stephen Latrobe ! Take that, 
sir !” And he struck him fiercely in the face. 

Still Jack kept his reason. He flung his pistol 
outside the crowd. 

Bear witness, gentlemen,” he cried, “ that I am 
unarmed ! This affair must be settled in colder 
blood. Stephen, give up your arms.” 

“ I won’t !” 

You shall !” 

And the two men closed like wild beasts. There 
was an attempt to part them, but in the struggle 
both fell heavily together to the sidewalk, and 
Stephen’s grasp relaxed as if by magic. 

“ He is stunned — carry him to the office.” 

“ He is dead — take him home r 

Jack stood paralyzed, partly with his fall, but 
more with the suddenness of the calamity that had 
befallen him. “ Oh, Belle ! Belle !” were the first 
words that wrung his lips asunder. Some one 
touched him, an old friend of his father’s — a white- 
headed man, wise in all the world’s whys and 
wherefores. 

“ Better make yourself scarce. Jack,” he said ; 
“ things will be a little unpleasant if Steve is dead. 


128 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


He’s got powerful friends in this section ; they 
won’t remember anything in your favor. A year or 
two in the State’s prison isn’t the thing for a gentle- 
man ; have you any gold on you ?” 

“ A little.” 

“ Here’s a little more ; and my mare is tied at 
Benson’s corner ; take her, and welcome. Make 
for the Red River as quick as possible.” 

“ One more favor, Colonel ; tell Miss Belle Pascal 
the truth ; I’m a dying man to you — I’m a dead man 
to her. Say what you can in my favor.” 

“ So you love little Belle, Jack. God pity her, and 
you, too. I don’t really see as you could help the 
contrary, way things have gone ; and I’ll tell her so. 
But hurry away, my boy ; you have not a moment 
to lose.” 

Is it the same J ack Manners that stood an hour 
ago with pretty Belle Pascal under the magnolias — 
this man, flying from the sheriff and the prison, with 
a volcano of rage and sorrow in his heart ? He has 
taken a life he never meant to take — he has crowned 
the woman he loved with grief and shame, instead 
of joy — he is a fugitive flying from all happiness — 
flying for life, for bare life, and stripped of all honor 
and joy. He was only twenty-five years old yester- 
day, and he has gone from out his former existence 
as completely as if he had gone into the grave. 

***** * 

Time, which cares for none of these things, went 
on as though there were no ruined lives or broken 
hearts. Days slipped into weeks, and months grew 


A Sotithern Temper, 


129 


into years ; ten years passed, and from Jack Man- 
ners there came neither word nor token. His friend 
Will Cannon had cautiously advertised such events 
as he thought would influence him, but without 
effect. He did not And Jack until he had ceased to 
hope for it, for Destiny loves of all things to surprise 
us. In the tenth summer after the tragedy, Will went 
with an exploring party into the highlands of the 
Colorado River. One day the explorers lost their 
way, and found themselves at sunset far from any 
settlement. Suddenly, however, they came upon a 
little log-hut built upon the ledge of a rock, over- 
looking on one side many a mile of rolling prairie. 
It stood between two superb live oaks, and was 
literally covered with yellow jasmine. In the 
open door, leaning upon his rifle, stood a splendid- 
looking fellow, whom Will knew at once for his 
lost friend. 

He met the party with a frank and generous hos- 
pitality, cooked with his own hands venison steaks 
and hoe-cakes, and added coffee which a Turkish 
Bey might have envied. In that latitude, it grows 
rapidly dark, and in the confusion of hobbling the 
horses and preparing for a night’s stay. Jack had 
specially noticed no one. They eat supper by the 
blazing cedar logs, and after it, all lights were 
extinguished. Jack explaining that the Comanches 
were in the neighborhood, and that it would be 
folly to give them any advantage. One by one the 
party spread their blankets under the friendly roof 
or sheltering trees, and dropped asleep. At length 
Will only was left. 


130 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


Then he could contain himself no longer. He 
flung his pipe on the ground, and seizing both his 
friend’s hands, looked steadily in his eyes and 
uttered but one word : Jack !” 

The recognition was instant. They sat with 
clasped hands and fast-fllling eyes, unable to speak. 
When bearded men weep, the deepest fountain of 
life is troubled ; yet surely, in the tenderness of that 
moment, both souls touched a height and depth 
that well repaid the waiting and watching of ten 
years. 

When they had somewhat conquered their emo- 
tion, they began to speak of the past. 

“Poor Belle!” sobbed Jack, his flrmness totally 
giving way again. “ God knows how bitterly I have 
sorrowed for Stephen, but his fate was a tender 
mercy compared with her living death.” 

“‘Living death!’ What do you mean. Jack? 
There is no nobler or more useful woman in Louisi- 
ana than Belle Pascal. Do you call it a ‘ living 
death * to be mistress of a fine plantation and of 
three hundred human beings, whom she is grad- 
ually educating and emancipating, and who wor- 
ship her as something between a mother and an 
angel?” 

“ Will ! Will ! What do you say ? There must 
have been some great mistake. I wrote to Belle 
once and her uncle answered the letter, saying that 
she had been dreadfully ill, and was now hopelessly 
insane. The note was kind enough, but he told me 
plainly that I must consider myself dead to her and 
to the whole community.” 


A Southern Temper, 13 1 


“ Belle was truly very ill, and I think it likely 
was a long time in a very melancholy condition ; 
but the death of her uncle threw the whole estate 
on her care, and she rose at once to the obligation. 
There is not in the whole South a better managed 
plantation than hers.” 

I wonder if she still loves me.” 

“ Loves you ! I have no doubt of it ; and what 
is more, she is sure you will come back for her. 
Only a month ago, when I bade her good-bye, she 
said to me : ‘Will, //you should come across Jack 
— for uncle told me he knew he was in Texas — tell 
him I have kept my promise.’ ” 

Jack got up and paced the little plateau in an 
excited manner. 

“ Will,” he said, “ you would not believe it, but I 
am the richest man in ten counties. I own hun- 
dreds of acres, and thousands of horses and cattle. 
I never was glad of it before.” 

“ How did you make it. Jack ? You left home, I 
heard, with thirty dollars.” 

“ I did not make it ; not a dime of it. Fortune 
brings in some crafts that are not steered ; she 
found mine drifting about and took charge of it ; 
that’s all.” 

“There is nothing to prevent your going back 
now, Jack ; when will you be ready ? The Latrobe 
affair was long since settled in your favor by public 
sentiment.” 

“ To-morrow — to-day — this hour if you choose. I 
must save every moment of what is now left of 
Belle’s and my own wrecked life.” 


132 


Mi^s, Barrs Short Stories. 


But travel was but a slow affair in those days, 
and though Jack performed wonders, it was nearly 
three weeks after this conversation -ere he stood 
again under the oaks of the Pascal plantation. 
“ Stood,” for he had to stand in order to meet the 
joy before him. For coming down the avenue was 
Belle, more beautiful in all her ripe loveliness and 
completed suffering than ever in his youthful 
dreams he had thought her. 

At first he determined to wait where he stood — at 
the foot of the great tree that had been their old 
trysting-place — but the next moment he found it 
impossible. He had already waited too long. He 
put spurs to his horse, and the animal, divining his 
master’s impatience, devoured the space that lay 
between the hearts so long parted. 

The clatter of his hoofs aroused Belle’s attention. 
She lifted her hands to shade her eyes, and the next 
moment a wild cry of “Jack! Jack I Home at 
last !” rang like some glad clarion triumph through 
the soft, still air. 

Another moment, and they were in each other’s 
arms. All the long yearning of years stilled and 
satisfied ; for tears and fears and sorrow, an abun- 
dant forgiveness and a mighty recompense. 

“ Oh, Belle !” said Jack, as he looked lovingly into 
the face which time had only beautified and enno- 
bled, “ how did you know me in all this wild gear, 
bearded like a Turk, sunbrowned and savage-look- 
ing as the Comanches I have been living among ? 
How did you recognize me, after these many years 
of cruel separation f” 


A Southern Temper. 


133 


Belle put up her little white hand and stroked 
lovingly the sun-browned face, and long, tangled 
hair : 

Darling,” she answered, “ what disguise could 
hide you from me ?” 



A Man and his Own Way. 


On a lovely afternoon, when the balmy air and 
the fresh, bright toilets of the ladies made a kind of 
gala day, even on Broadway, Philip Hays stood at 
his office door, thoughtfully pulling on his neatly 
fitting gloves. I say “ thoughtfully,” because that 
word just describes his state of mind, which was 
that of halting between two opinions — whether to 
go for his usual stroll up-town, have a comfortable 
dinner at his hotel, and a little flirtation with Jessie 
Mabin afterward, or to cross the river, and take a 
train to his brother’s pretty place in Jersey. He 
told himself, as he was carefully buttoning his 
right-hand glove, that the berries were ripe, and 
that he really needed a little fresh air, etc., etc., etc. 

But he knew a far better reason, if he would only 
have acknowledged it ; and what is more, other peo- 
ple knew it, too. Brother Will was wise enough to 
credit his pretty sister-in-law with Philip’s excess of 
fraternal affection ; and little Nona Zabriski herself 
had a shrewd guess as to what kind of berries Mr. 
Philip Hays came to the country to taste. 

Well, on this particular afternoon, the country 
proved the most powerful attraction, and in an hour 
and a half after the gloves had been fitted to a 

[134] 


A Man and His Ozvn Way. 135 


nicety, they were taken off again to clasp the hands 
of the dearest, sweetest, brightest little country 
maiden that any man with the right kind of eyes 
could desire to see. 

Everybody pretended to believe the story about 
the berries, and that, of course, gave him a chance 
to go with Nona to gather them. 

What Philip said to Nona, and what Nona said to 
Philip, the berries and the evening star probably 
know ; but it was very delightful and so satisfying 
that the young people came back to the house with- 
out any berries at all, and presently there was a 
great deal of hand-shaking and kissing, which ended 
in a bottle of champagne and mutual good wishes. 

Well, after this, for a couple of weeks, there was 
no hesitating at the office door. Philip said 
“ peaches,” now, when his friends rallied him about 
his sudden passion for the country, and the “ peach ” 
excuse did just as well as the berries.” 

Philip’s mother and sister were going to some 
fashionable Virginian springs, and he greatly desired 
that his little Nona should go with them. For, to 
tell the truth, he did wish she were a little more 
stylish, would put up her curls, and abandon aprons, 
and dress like Jessie Mabin did. 

He went about his plans with that tact which 
young men who have sisters acquire : a little present 
from the jeweler’s, a modest check, “just for spend- 
ing money,” made his sister Cecilia sufficiently inter- 
ested in his project. 

“ Nona is a dear little girl, Cecile,” he said ; “ all 


136 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


she wants is a more stately manner and stylish 
dress." 

“ If that is what you like, Philip, why did you not 
marry Jessie Mabin ? I thought you liked her well 
enough." 

Because, Cecile, I want a heart inside the dress — 
a pure, loving heart." 

It seems to me — " but here Cecile stopped. She 
was wise enough to know she would be throwing 
words away." 

The next difficulty was to make Nona understand 
his wishes and induce her to accept the invitation 
sent by his mother and sister. He approached the 
subject under the most favorable circumstances ; 
the moonlight did not betray his confusion, and his 
encircling arm held her so close that he had no fear 
of securing her attention if argument or persuasion 
was necessary. 

“ I am so glad, Nona, that you are going with 
Cecile. I am sure it will do you good," he said. 

And then he stopped and kissed her for emphasis. 

“ I am going to please you, Philip, for I am quite 
well, thank you." 

“Oh, I don’t mean about your health, you little 
witch ! Who could have such bright eyes and red 
lips and not be quite well ? I mean about dress and 
deportment and that kind of thing." 

There was a little ominous silence, and then alow, 
grieved voice : 

“ I don’t think I understand you, Philip." 

“ No, dear ; and, upon the whole, I am glad you 
have never understood, so far ; but when we are 


A Man and His Own Way, 137 


married, we shall live in the city, and we must dress 
and behave as city people do. Cecile will show you 
all a^bout it, darling, so don’t trouble your pretty 
little head.” 

“ I thought you liked me just as I am, Philip. 
What is wrong in the city that is proper and pretty, 
in the country ? Will you tell me ?” 

Certainly, Nona. Your loose flowing hair and 
short dresses and white apron ; your frank ways, all 
so perfectly charming here, would cause unpleasant 
criticisms in the city. I want my little girl to be as 
stylish and fashionable as — as — well, as Miss Jessie 
Mabin, for instance.” 

“ Ah I She is your ideal, is she ?” 

Much more to the same purport, mingled truly 
with compliments and kisses, was said ; but it did 
not deceive the wounded woman’s heart ; for Nona, 
though not a fashionable woman, was a true woman, 
nevertheless, and understood both all Philip said and 
all that it inferred. 

Philip thought he had managed cleverly, and 
when he next saw Nona, in a most perfectly 
appointed traveling suit, he congratulated himself 
on his tact and wisdom. It was not possible for 
him to leave his business entirely, but it had been 
arranged he was to come at intervals for a few days, 
and be regularly refreshed and comforted by 
plentiful supplies of letters. 

The supply was pretty fair the first week, but fell 
off gradually, until several days passed without any 
word from Nona. Still he was not much troubled, 
for he relied with implicit confidence on the effect 


138 Afrs. Barrs Short Stories, 


which Philip Hays, in his own proper person, could 
not fail to make. This confidence did not agree 
with events. He arrived at the springs, and found 
Nona out driving with Jack Christie, a young man 
whom he particularly disliked for his pretentious 
• manners. 

He was on the piazza when they returned, and he 
was certain Nona saw him, though she kept her eyes 
on Jack’s face, and pretended the greatest interest 
in his foolish conversation ; for of two things Philip 
was certain : first that her interest was pretended 
and, second, that Jack’s conversation was “ foolish.” 

Then he felt unaccountably chilled by the greet- 
ing of the splendidly dressed Nona, who calmly 
gave him the tips of her gloved fingers, with a pretty 
little assurance of being glad to see Mr. Hays,” 
and the information that Cecile had been expecting 
him since the early morning train. 

“ Cecile !” he said, reproachfully. And you, too, 
Nona ?” 

Oh, dear, no, Mr. Hays. It is quite too exhaust- 
ing to expect anything. One honor at a time is 
quite sufficient.” 

Philip was shocked and silenced for the time. 
For one distressing half-hour he tried to assume 
his right position with his betrothed, but she kept 
Jack Christie persistently between them ; and, angry 
and hurt, he sought his sister Cecile. 

“ Cecile,” he said, “ what a change there is in 
Nona ! What is the cause ?” 

“ A wonderful change. I never saw a girl improve 
so rapidly. I suppose you are the cause. Do you 


A Mail and His Own Way. 139 


know she is really the belle t Jack Christie and Ed 
Forsyth and half a dozen others are raving about 
her. Positively they are, Phil.” 

“Very kind of them, but — ” 

“ Well, so it is, you know ; very first families, and 
all that kind of thing ; upon my word, I believe 
Nona will make a sensation next winter, and 
mamma is quite satisfied now.” 

But Philip was not. No, not at all ; very far from 
it indeed. That night at the hop, Nona looked 
grand enough for a queen ; her golden hair done 
up in some picturesque style ; yards of satin and 
lace making a track of glory behind her, and jewels 
flashing from her throat and wrists. But all in vain 
Philip pleaded for a dance ; Nona had been engaged 
for every set since breakfast ; and she reminded 
him, rather maliciously, of the necessity of observ- 
ing the usages of socity. So he had the satisfaction 
of watching the social triumph of the future Mrs. 
Hays. 

But he was not the victor, and it hurt him sorely 
to be dragged at the chariot wheels, when he should 
have been holding the reins. Before the world, 
however, Nona’s behavior was perfectly irreproach- 
able. Not even his mother suspected any estrange- 
ment ; for Nona was respectful, kind, always mind- 
ful of the proprieties — but she took marvelous care 
never to be left alone with him. 

Three miserable days of continual disappoint- 
ment, and then Philip determined to go back to 
New York, and see Nona no more until he could do 
so in her country home. Perhaps there he could 


140 


Mrs, Barr^s Short Stories, 


regain his lost ground ; but even this determination 
was very humiliating to the proud young man, who 
only one month ago had himself dictated the very 
course which was making him so wretched. 

He could not help blaming himself, and he did it 
very thoroughly and repentantly. Philip Hays was 
not the first man who has been sorry for not “ letting 
well alone." However, he bade his mother and 
Cecile “ good-bye," and gave the regulation kiss to 
Nona, who received it with perfect placidity, and 
gave him many kind wishes for his journey ; for, as 
he was to leave very early in the morning, he did 
not expect to see the ladies again before his 
departure. 

As they passed out of the parlors, Nona turned, 
and for a moment a flash of the old tenderness made 
her face beautiful, her lips parted, and she hesitated 
a moment, as if she would speak, but finally passed 
on and away. 

Poor Philip ! He took his cigar and sat down on 
the dark, silent balcony, miserable enough. But in 
about half an hour a timid little figure stole through 
the deserted room, and without warning laid her 
hand upon his shoulder. 

He turned rapidly, all the great passion which 
had grown to a higher and deeper intensity in his 
suffering, burst out in one imploring whisper of — 
Nona !" 

“Philip !" 

Well, you know the end. Philip did not like the 
fashionable Nona at all ; his whole heart cried out 
for the sweet, natural girl, whose worth he had not 


A Man and His Ow 7 t Way, 141 


realized until he thought her lost. Tangled curls, 
short dresses, ruffled apron never again looked 
homely in his eyes. 

Ever afterward he had the most wholesome fear 
of Nona becoming fashionable ; and Nona to this 
day, when Philip is in opposition, blandly reminds 
him of his one experiment in managing women, and 
assures him that in the long run he would not like 
his own way, even if he got it. And so he takes 
hers, which, after all, I have no doubt, is the most 
sensible thing he could do. 



A Romance of Labor. 


The unwritten romance of real life far exceeds 
in beauty and instruction anything that simple 
fancy ever imagined ; and I have had only to keep 
my eyes and ears open, as I went up and down in 
the world, to fill the storehouse of memory with 
many a strange drama. The following true incident 
was brought to my remembrance this morning 
while listening to the rebellious words of a young 
man, who could not see his father’s wisdom in 
desiring him to learn a trade. 

“ It will make a common man of me, father,” he 
said, querulously ; I shall be as dirty as a black- 
smith, and have hands like a coal-heaver.” 

“ And if you think, Fred, that wearing fine clothes 
and having white hands make you a gentleman, let 
me tell you, sir, you are now a very common man^ 
indeed, to begin with. A good trade might help 
you to truer notions of gentlemanhood.” 

Then I looked at the handsome fellow — for he was 
handsome — and I thought involuntarily of young 
Steve Gaskill. Steve has made his mark now, but 
many a year ago I heard just such a talk between 
[142] 



A Romance of Labor, 


143 


him and old Josiah Gaskill, relative to the young 
man learning his father’s trade of a wool stapler. 

“ It is a dirty business, father,” said the splendid 
Steve, in a full evening dress, “ and I hate the smell 
of oil, and the sight of those men in blue linen 
blouses. I hope I shall do something better for 
myself than that.” 

“Very well, lad ; whaten is thou fain to be ?” 

“ A lawyer, father.” 

“ They’re naught but a lazy, quarrelsome set, but 
thou sha’ not say I iver stood i’ thy gate. Be a law- 
yer, lad. I’ll speak to Denham to-morrow about 
thee.” 

So young Steve was articled to Denham & 
Downes, to study law, and especially “ conveyancing.” 
He was an only son, but he had three sisters, and 
over them and his mother he exercised supreme 
influence. Whatever Steve did, was right ; whatever 
he said, was beyond dispute. Even old Josiah, with 
all his sound sense, was, in spite of himself, swayed 
by this undisputed acknowledgment of Steve’s 
superiority. He would not have advised his son to 
be a lawyer, but seeing that Steve was not afraid 
of being one, he was rather proud of the lad’s pluck 
and ambition. 

It cost him a good deal. Steve’s tastes were expen- 
sive, and he fell naturally among a class of men who 
led him into many extravagances. There were 
occasional awkward scenes, but Steve, supported 
by his mother and sisters, always cleared every 
scrape, and finally satisfied the family pride in 


144 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


being regularly admitted upon the roll of her 
majesty’s attorneys. 

In the meantime, his father had been daily failing 
in health, and soon after this event he died. Most 
of his savings had been secured for the benefit of 
the helpless women of the Gaskill family ; and Steve 
now found himself with a profession and a thousand 
pounds to give him a fair start in it. People said 
old Gaskill had acted very wisely, and Steve had 
sense enough to acquiesce in public opinion. He 
knew, too, that just as long as his mother or sisters 
had a shilling, they would share it with him. 

So he hopefully opened his office in his native 
town of Leeds, and waited for clients. But York, 
shire men are proverbially cautious ; a young, good- 
natured, fashionably dressed lawyer was not their 
ideal. Steve could not look crafty and wise under 
any circumstances, and the first year he did not 
make enough to pay his rent. 

Nevertheless, he did not, in any way curtail 
expenses ; and when the summer holidays arrived, 
he went as usual to a fashionable watering place. 
It happened that year saw the dtbut of Miss Eliza- 
beth Braithwaite, a great heiress, and a very hand- 
some girl. Steve was attracted by her beauty, and 
her great wealth was certainly no drawback in his 
eyes. In a short time, he perceived Miss Braith- 
waite favored him above all other pretenders to her 
hand, and he began seriously to consider the advan- 
tages of a rich wife. 

His profession hitherto had been a failure ; his 
one thousand pounds were nearly spent ; his three 


A Romance of Labor, 


145 


sisters were all on the point of marriage, a condi- 
tion which might seriously modify their sisterly 
instincts ; and his mother’s whole annual income 
would not support him a month. Would it not be 
the best plan to accept the good fortune so evidently 
within his reach ? 

Elizabeth was handsome and inclined to favor 
him, and though she had the reputation of being 
both authoritative in temper and economical in 
money matters, he did not doubt but that she would 
finally acknowledge his power as completely as his 
own mother and sisters. So he set himself to win 
Miss Braithwaite, and before Christmas they were 
married. 

True, he had been compelled to give up a great 
deal more than he liked ; but he promised himself 
plenty of marital compensations. Elizabeth insisted 
on retaining her own house, and as Steve had really 
no house to offer her, he must heed go to Braith- 
waite Hall, as the husband of its proprietress. She 
insisted upon his removing his office to Braithwaite, 
a small village, offering none of the advantages for 
killing time which a large city like Leeds did ; and 
she had all her money scrupulously settled upon 
herself for her own use, and under her absolute 
control. 

Steve felt very much as if his wife had bought 
him ; but, for a little time, the eclat of having mar- 
ried a great heiress, the bridal festivities and foreign 
travel compensated for the loss of his freedom. 
But when they returned to Braithwaite, life soon 
showed him a far more prosaic side. Mrs. Gaskill’s 


146 


Mrs, Barr s Short Stories. 


economical disposition soon became particularly 
offensive to Steve. She inquired closely into his 
business, and did not scruple to make unpleasant 
witty remarks about his income. She rapidly devel- 
oped, too, an authoritative disposition, against which 
Steve daily more and more rebelled. The young 
couple were soon very unhappy. 

The truth was that a great transition was taking 
place in Steve’s mind, and times of transition are 
always times of unrest and misery. The better 
part of his nature was beginning to claim a hearing. 
He had seen now all that good society could show 
him ; he had tasted of all pleasures money can buy, 
and he was not happy. 

His wife had no ennui and no dissatisfaction with 
herself. There was her large house to oversee, her 
gardens and conservatories, her servants and charity- 
schools, her toilet, and a whole colony of pet ani- 
mals. Her days were too short for all the small 
interests that filled them *, and these interests she 
would willingly have shared with Steve, but to him 
they soon became intolerable bores. 

Under some circumstances he might have found 
his work in the ordering and investing of his wife’s 
large estate ; but Elizabeth was far too cautious a 
woman to trust it in untried hands. Her father’s 
agent was her agent ; her banker managed all her 
investments ; her park and farms and gardens 
were all under the care of old and experienced ser- 
vants, who looked upon Steve merely as “ Missis’s 
husband.” 

In the second year of his marriage he began to 


A Ro7nance of Labor, 


147 


have some thoughts which would have astonished 
his wife, could she have thought it worth her while 
to inquire what occupied his mind in the long, 
moody hours when he paced the shrubbery, or sat 
silently looking out of the window. But Steve was 
now ready for any honest thing that would take him 
out of the purposeless, dependent life which he had 
foolishly chosen for himself. 

One day, greatly to his surprise, Elizabeth said to 
him : 

“ Steve, I have a letter from a cousin of my 
mother’s, who lives in Glasgow. She is going to 
Australia, and wants me to buy her house. She 
says it is a great bargain ; and I wrote to Barrett 
to go and see about it. I have a letter this morn- 
ing, saying he is too ill to leave his bed. I wonder 
if you could go and attend to it ?” 

Anything for a change. Steve showed a very 
proper business-like interest, and said : 

‘‘ Yes, I would be very glad to go.” 

“ Very well, I should think you knew enough of 
titles and deeds and conveyancing, and all that kind 
of thing. I will trust the affair to you, Steve.” 

So the next morning Steve found himself on the 
Caledonian Line, with one hundred pounds in his 
pocket, and a veritable piece of business on hand. 
The first twenty miles out of Leeds he enjoyed with 
the abandon of a bird set free ; then he began to 
think again. At Crewe he missed a train, and 
wandering about the station, fell into talk with the 
engineer of the next one, who was cleaning and 


14B Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


examining his engine with all the love and pride a 
mother might give to a favorite child. 

The two men fraternized at once, and Steve made 
the trip over the Caledonian line in the cuddy of the 
engineer, who was a fine young fellow, . ‘‘ one of 
seven,” he said, “ all machinists and engineers.’’ 
The young mechanic was only serving his time, 
learning every branch of his business practically ; 
he had brothers who made engines, and he hoped to 
do so some day. 

In spite of his soiled face and oily clothes, Steve 
recognized that refinement that comes with educa- 
tion ; and when his new friend called upon him at 
the Queen’s Hotel, he would not have been ashamed 
of his appearance, even in his most fastidious days. 

“ Mr. Dalrymple, 1 am glad to see you,” said Steve, 
holding out both hands to him. 

I thought you would be, sir ; it is not often I am 
mistaken in my likings. I will go with you now to 
see my father's works, if it suits you.” 

Never had such a place entered Stephen Gaskill’s 
conception ; the immense furnaces, the hundreds of 
giants working around them, the clang of machinery, 
the mighty struggle of mind with matter, of intellect 
over the elements, was a revelation. He envied 
those Cyclops in their leathern masks and aprons ; 
he longed to lift their mighty hammers. He looked 
upon the craftsmen with their bare, brawny arms 
and blackened hands, and felt his heart glow with 
admiration when he saw the mighty works those 
hands had fashioned! The tears were in his eyes 


A Romance of Labor, 


149 


when Andrew Dalrymple and he parted at the gate 
of the great walled-in-yard. 

“ Thank you,” he said ; “ you have done me the 
greatest possible service. I shall remember it.” 

That night Steve formed a strange but noble reso- 
lution. First of all, he devoted himself to his wife’s 
business, and accomplished it in a manner which 
elicited Mr. Barrett’s warm praise, and made Eliza- 
beth wonder whether she might not spare her agent’s 
fees for the future. Then he had a long confidential 
talk with the owner of the Dalrymple Iron and 
Machine Works, the result of which was the follow- 
ing letter to Mrs. Gaskill : 

“ My Dear Wife : I shall not be home again for 
at least two years, for I have begun an apprentice- 
ship to Thomas Dalrymple here, as an ironmaster. 
I propose to learn the whole process practically. I 
have lived too long upon your bounty, for I have 
lost your esteem, as well as my own, and I do not 
say but what I have deserved the loss. Please God, 
I will redeem my wasted past, and with His help 
make a man of myself. When I am worthy to be 
your husband you will respect me, and, until then, 
think as kindly as possible of 

Stephen Gaskill.” 

This letter struck the first noble chord in Eliza- 
beth’s heart. From that hour not even her favorite 
maid durst make her usual little compassionate sneer 
at “ poor master.” 

Steve in leathern apron and coarse working 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


150 


clothes, began laboriously happy days, which 
brought him nights of sweetest sleep ; and Elizabeth 
began a series of letters to her husband which gradu- 
ally grew more and more imbued with the tenderest 
interest and respect. In a few weeks, she visited 
him of her own free will, and purposely going to the 
works, saw her self-banished lord wielding a ponder- 
ous hammer upon a bar of white-hot iron. Swarthy, 
bare-armed, clothed in leather, he had never looked 
so handsome in Elizabeth’s eyes ; and her eyes 
revealed this fact to Ste ve, for in them was the 
tender light of a love founded upon genuine 
respect. 

Steve deserved it. He wrought faithfully out his 
two years’ service, cheered by his wife’s letters and 
visits, and when he came out of the Dalrymple 
Works, there was no more finished iron-master than 
he. He held his head frankly up now, and looked 
fortune boldly in the face ; he could earn his own 
living anywhere, and, better than all, he had con- 
quered his wife — won her esteem and compelled her 
to acknowledge a physical strength and a moral 
purpose greater than her own. 

Between Leeds and Braithwaite Hall there have 
been for many years gigantic iron-works. The 
mills and railways of the West Riding know them 
well ; their work is famous for its excellence, for the 
master is a practical machinist and oversees every 
detail. Their profits are enormous, and Stephen 
Gaskill, their proprietor, is also the well-beloved 
and thoroughly respected master of Braithwaite 
Hall and of Braithwaite Hall’s mistress. 


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A ROMANCE OF LABOR . Page 150 












Every one wondered when the pretty, sensible 
Lydia Wilson married Will Hammond, and yet no 
one exactly knew why he wondered. Will was 
handsome enough, had good prospects, ^n,d no posi- 
tive vice. So much might be said for him in a 
general way ; but yet no sense of security was felt, 
and his effeminate beauty and wavering principles 
seemed to all Lydia’s friends poor foundation to 
build a home and two or more lives upon. 

But there was nothing uncertain in Lydia’s char- 
acter ; and therefore, having made up her mind to 
marry Will Hammond, she carried out her intention* 
And for a little while all went well. Will had that 
kind of popularity which comes from an easy, oblig- 
ing disposition, always ready to tend or to help, and 
incapable of saying a positive, downright “ No ” 
even to the most unreasonable demand. 

Lydia, however, was always ready to justify her 
ways, and was by no means quick to admit that she 
had been deceived. A bright, cheerful face the 
brave little woman kept, and would not admit, even 
to her own heart, the miserable fact that in this, the 
very first year of her marriage, their positions were 

[151] 


152 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


most unnaturally reversed, and that she was the 
guardian and advisor of him on whom she ought to 
have leaned and relied. 

But so it was. It took all her tact and influence 
to keep him in the snug government office which 
her father’s name had procured him ; for, with a 
desire to please everybody, he was perpetually 
giving offense, and with a fitful ambition large 
enough for ten men, he hardly compassed the work 
of one. 

A great deal of imprudence and a great deal of 
laziness were forgiven him for the sake of his wife ; 
but the forbearance of even government grace has 
a limit, and one bright New Year, four years after 
his marriage, he found himself out of office, and 
literally out of pocket. 

This was the beginning of many sorrows. By 
steps almost insensible to the world, but painfully 
evident to her who counted every one on her bleed- 
ing heart. Will took the downward road to social 
ruin and contempt ; not, however, without fearful 
repentings and long days of passionate remorse. 
And against these paroxysms of despair, Lydia set 
the rock of her immovable love ; and so, as the 
weary years went on, won him again and again to 
renewed efforts. 

But little by little, the beauty and grace of their 
home passed away. Lydia had now four children, 
and strive as she would, poverty in its bitterest 
forms visited her. There is an old English proverb 
which says, “ God bless the rich, the poor can beg 
and this, in a comparative sense, explains what I 


A Faithful Woman, 


153 


mean. She was not poor enough to have thrown 
all outside pretenses away, to have ceased desiring 
and striving for decent clothing and a comfortable 
home ; she was not poor and hopeless enough to beg, 
and, therefore, if God did not help her, man hardly 
could, since he knew not of her extremity. 

This was in the tenth year of her marriage, and 
her eldest boy, who inherited her own strong and 
hopeful character, was already, with baby hands, 
fighting the battle of life which his father had almost 
abandoned. 

One night, after a day of such cold, dismal weather 
as comes with a spring thaw, little Willie returned 
home thoroughly wearied and dispirited with a vain 
effort to make his usual half-dollar. Lydia, too, was 
sick with a dull anxiety about her husband, who had 
not been near his home for nearly four days ; never- 
theless, she made every effort in her power to cheer 
and comfort the child. He was naturally a brave, 
hopeful little fellow, and he soon gathered up his 
strength and hopes as he felt the warmth of the 
little stove and the refreshing of his bowl of tea. 

Willie was his mother’s only friend and confidant, 
and so, as he sat and warmed himself, she talked to 
him of his father’s absence, and sought some comfort 
from his wide and sad experience of street life. 

‘‘Don’t you fret, mother,” said the little hero. 
“ When I’m warmed a bit. I’ll get Jim Donnelly, 
and he and I will either find father, or set the police 
to do the job.” 

As if the mention of their name had been a spell, 
two policemen at this moment opened the door 


154 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


cautiously and looked in. Lydia rose to her feet, 
and strove in vain to form the words of inquiry she 
feared to make. The men were rough and peremp- 
tory at first, and searched the room and closet 
adjoining it with a care that filled both Lydia and 
Willie’s heart with a sickening fear. But it was 
impossible to doubt the wife’s real agony, and 
the ingenuous declaration of his father’s unusual 
absence. 

Kindly, and with a rough consideration, they then 
informed the miserable wife that her husband had 
been suspected as an utterer of counterfeit coin, and 
that they had been searching for him for three days- 

To the officers she said no word ; she knew 
protestations were all useless there, but in her heart 
and soul she refused to believe him guilty. Weak 
and foolish she knew him, idle and self-indulgent, 
and the bond-slave of that distilled devil that men 
call “ whisky but even in his degradation, he had 
not lost all finer feelings. Will Hammond sober 
still hated Will Hammond drunk. Will Hammond 
sober loved his wife and children with a passionate, 
reproachful excess, which was misery enough to his 
really tender heart, and in the depths to which he 
had fallen, some of the honor of manhood, some of 
the sensitiveness of a gentleman, still clung to him. 

To the son, she kept declaring her faith in the 
father as if there was comfort in the very iteration ; 
and Willie, who looked at his father through the 
same glamour of love as his mother - did, felt all his 
little heart fill with sorrow and indignation. 

But both were helpless. What could they do but 


A Faithful Woman, 


155 


suffer and hope ? Only one thing more — but that 
was a deed of Omnipotence — they could pray ; and 
up from the humble hearthstone rose that prayer of 
extremity which always moves the heart of Him 
who moves the universe 

The next morning, a messenger brought her a 
note from the “ Tombs.” Yes, it had come to that ; 
and for a moment her faith in God and her husband 
faltered. It was terrible to see those iron gates 
between her and the soul she loved as her own ; it 
was terrible to have his faults measured by the 
square and rule of absolute justice, instead of the 
yielding lines of love. But it was all for the best, 
though she knew it not. 

A long confinement, in which he was compelled 
to forget his usual stimulants — a solitude in which 
the ghosts of murdered years and opportunities 
haunted him continually, did for his reformation 
what neither the most solemn resolutions nor the 
most abounding love could effect. 

He went to his trial finally a completely altered 
man. In his extremity some old friends gathered 
round him. Clothed and in his right mind, he stood 
before his judges a much less suspicious character 
than that the police had picked up, drunk, ragged 
and dirty. His drunkenness was acknowledged ; 
his guilt, clearly denied, was found impossible to 
prove, and he left the room of justice a. freed man 
in more senses than one. 

Still it was impossible to remove all at once the 
odor of the place and circumstances which had sur- 
rounded him for so long ; and in his efforts to re- 


156 Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


trieve the past, he felt this keenly. Yet he did not 
fall ; for, though the world was doubtful and cold 
enough, he knew always of one little spot on it 
where every one loved him, where every one believed 
in him. 

In the midst of his struggle, a stiil mightier one 
began. North and South rushed to that ultimate 
test in all human things — the power to hit the 
hardest blows — and the bugle note of warfare struck 
the proper key-note of William Hammond’s charac- 
ter. Incapable of steady and long-continued action, 
he was a giant in any extraordinary emergency, and 
he had not been six months in the army before he 
made his mark. 

In the excitement of continual change and adven- 
ture, he found all the stimulus his nature needed. 
A braver leader, a more fearless soldier on any 
desperate hope, no cause could desire, and he won 
his shoulder straps almost by acclamation. 

No one, however, rejoiced more in the return of 
peace than Colonel Hammond ; but for all that he 
has never left the army. He found there his place, 
and a life affording his nature opportunities both for 
satisfaction and development. 

He is now somewhere in the great Southwest, 
and Lydia and the boys are with him. She has her 
reward in being idolized with all the strength and 
passion that a woman deserves who dares first to 
marry the man she loves, and then faithfully cling 
to him in all circumstances, trust him through good 
and evil report, and never lose faith in his restora- 
tion, no matter how low he may have fallen. 



KATE DALRYMPLE, 


There used to stand in the upper part of Glasgow 
a handsome mansion, with fine stone balconies and 
a very beautiful garden. It has been pulled down 
now, to make room for an ugly row of shops and 
flats, but in my youth it retained a sylvan appear- 
ance and many a pleasant memory of Provost 
Thomas Dalrymple who built it. 

He governed “ the good city ” toward the close of 
that wretched period of English history which 
culminated in 1832, in the passing of the Reform 
Bill. But in spite of hard times lasting for nearly 
half a century, he had made money. His official 
position and his handsome dwelling showed that ; 
and he had many more proofs of it in fine trading 
vessels, city property and bank stocks. 

Of all his wealth his daughter Kate was sole 
heiress. A very pretty heiress indeed ! Slightly 
willful and romantic, but, upon the whole, just as 
good as she was rich and pretty. 

One evening, as far back as the winter of 1830, 
she sat chatting with her father over the walnuts 

[157] 



158 Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


and sherry. She looked unusually handsome, for 
she was a girl who understood contrasts and effects, 
and her black satin and white lace and crimson 
slippers had been thoughtfully put on. The provost 
was pleased and happy, and had just returned from 
a rather mysterious journey, about which Kate was 
curious. But she was too wise to show her curiosity ; 
her father would be certain to tell her in his own 
time and way. 

So the young girl admired her feet, sipped her 
wine, and waited, and the provost sat looking into 
the fire, and thoughtfully stirring the grace-cup of 
toddy he had just mixed. 

“ Take a thimbleful, Kitty,” he said ; “ I have a 
great toast for you to drink — one that hasna been 
drunk in this house sin’ the foundations o’ it were 
laid : Here's to the Dalrymples o' Dairg I" 

Kitty did as she was requested, supplementing 
the new toast with her usual one : 

“ Here's to you and me^ father! Who’s like us ?” 

“ The twa are ane, lassie. You’ll hae heard o’ the 
Dalrymples o’ Dairg ?” 

“ How should I ? Has any one written a book 
about them ?” 

“There hae been many books written for less 
matter ; but, howsome’er, I have just been at Dairg. 
The laird is dying, and we hae been ill Men’s for 
twenty-sax years, but we are brithers for a’ that’s 
come and gane.” 

There were tears in the provost’s eyes, and Kate 
drew close to him and took his hand between hers. 
This proof of sympathy was all he needed ; indeed. 


159 


Kate Dalrymple, 


he had much to say to Kate, and was glad to have so 
early an opportunity to say it. 

“Yes, Fergus and I quarreled twenty-sax years 
syne, anent Miss Grace Kirkconnell, and I left Dairg 
wi’ ^50 i’ my pouch, thinking to just ga awa’ to 
some o' the colonies. But I fell in wi’ luck folks 
and met a bonnie English lassie, and just bided i’ 
St. Mungo’s city, where I hae been blessed i’ basket 
and i’ store — praise be where praise is due ! Twa 
weeks syne Fergus sent for me ; he is dying now, 
and there was much to settle anent the affairs o’ the 
House o’ Dalrymple, for he is poor, Kate, and I am 
rich. We made a solemn paction ’tween us twa, and 
you maun do your share, lassie ; for, before a’ ither 
things, the House o’ Dalrymple must keep its head 
high.” 

“ It has done nothing for you, father ; why should 
you prop it ?” 

“You’ll never let me hear you speak words like 
them again. You’ll never forget the brave men and 
noble women who were your forbears, and gave you 
your gude name. We must pay our debt to them 
though they be dead. You are no true Dalrymple, 
Kate, if you wouldna gie your right hand for the 
honor ’o the auld house that crowns the Pentland 
crags.” 

“I would give my right hand to pleasure you, 
father ; that is better.” 

“Weel, it’s the same. Your uncle and I hae 
agreed -that you are to marry your cousin Sholto, 
and I shall gie you a tocher down o’ twenty thousand 
pounds. That will lift ’a the mortgages, and you’ll 


i6o 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


be Lady o’ Dairg, Kate, and I’ll be just the proudest 
man on theTrongate planestanes.” 

Did you see Cousin Sholto ?” 

“ He was awa’ in the Shetlands on a seal hunt ; 
but I heard naught at a’ but gude o’ the lad — an', 
at ony rate, he is a Dalrymple.” 

Not much more was said at this time. Kate was 
hardly ready yet either to oppose or circumvent the 
plan. She was not even sure whether she did not 
approve it, under conditions, for that intense pride 
of family which lies at the foundation of all Scotch- 
men's affections is not wanting in the women’s hearts 
also, and if this young Dalrymple was worthy of her 
love and tocher, she was not disinclined to give it. 

Many a long talk she had on the subject with Alice 
Pierson, a young English girl that Kate’s mother 
had educated and brought up, and who served Kate 
partly as companion and partly as maid. But for 
some months her father said no more on the sub- 
ject. The laird died, and he went forth to the 
funeral, and came back more clannish than ever, 
after mingling with the whole tribe in the solemn 
feudal ceremony of burying the dead chief. 

It was the middle of the next summer before she 
heard any more of her intended bridegroom. Then 
a letter came, saying that he and his foster-brother 
Donald would be in Glasgow at the end of July- 
Kate had been sure that this news would come 
sooner or later, and was prepared for it. She 
received it with a smile, and said : 

“Very well, father ; I will try and like Sholto ; 
only you must let me learn the lesson in my own 


Kate Dalrymple, t 6 i 


way, and I have a little plan which you must help 
us to carry out. We are going down to Rothesay 
for sea bathing. No one knows us there, and Alice 
is to be Kate Dalrymple, and I am to be Alice Pier- 
son. Sholto will then be at ease with me, and I shall 
find out his real character. If I can love him, I can 
win him^ 

“ I’ll play no Dalrymple false for any woman’s 
scheme,” said the provost, dourly ; but at last, with 
infinite coaxing, he was persuaded to stay in Glas- 
gow and remain passive. 

Then the young ladies took up their quarters in 
the lovely village of Rothesay, and they were hardly 
settled before the Highland gentlemen paid them a 
visit. 

Both were splendid-looking fellows, but Kate 
at once decided that Donald was the handsomer. 
Alice dressed and acted the petted heiress to perfec- 
tion, and Kate put on the modest toilet and rather 
melancholy air of a dependant just as cleverly. 
They fished and rode and rambled, and spent six 
charming weeks ; but, somehow, Sholto Dalrymple 
was always at the side of Alice the supposed heiress, 
and Donald with Kate the poor companion. Occa- 
sionally the two young men went to Glasgow for a 
week or two, but the wooing went merrily on, and 
all parties seemed determined to enjoy the present 
without thought of consequences. 

Consequences !” The word for the first time 
troubled Kate at the end of six weeks, and she 
resolved to run up and see her father, and find out 


i 62 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


what these might be. So, one evening, as they sat 
again together after dinner, she said : 

“ Father, I am going back to Rothesay to-morrow, 
and our pleasant little visit there must soon end. 
But I want to tell you that Sholto has scarcely left 
Alice’s side. He thinks, of course, she is his cousin. 
It is humiliating, but he has paid me very little 
attention, indeed. Now, father, what if Sholto 
refuses to marry me ?” 

Then he’ll get his sword and a commission in the 
42nd Highlanders. So much I maun do for him, 
ony way. But I shall buy the auld place mysel’, and 
when you do marry, you maun either marry a Dal- 
rymple, or we maun rebapteeze the lad.’ 

“ And suppose I am the disobedient one, father 
You’ll no daur to be that, Kate. It wad break 
my heart. But I should then gie Sholto the twenty 
thousand pounds to lift the mortgages, an’ you 
would hae to thole that loss, and, mayhap, mair 
besides ; for I’ll never see Dairg Castle shelter 
stranger heads.” 

So Kate knew the worst now. She might be poor 
enough with Donald, but then, how generous and 
noble and unselfish he had constantly proved him- 
self to be. And she loved him. Still, she felt that 
neither for this reason nor for any other could she 
so deeply disappoint and grieve her good father. 
No, no ; she had done a very foolish thing in deceiv- 
ing her cousin, and the thing must be undone at 
once. 

Full of this determination she was shy and cold 
to Donald on her return, and when their usual 


Kate Dalrymple. 


163 


evening ramble was proposed, refused to join it. 
Donald went out, but soon returned, and finding 
Kate alone, determined to know bis fate. He told 
her how dearly he loved her, and he told his tale 
with such tenderness and earnestness, and was so 
handsome withal, that Kate was sorely tempted. 

“ If you knew how I loved you, Alice ; if you 
knew what I must sacrifice to win -you, you would 
surely give me some hope.” 

“ Sacrifice !” The word nettled Kate in her pres- 
ent mood. “ She could not see how the laird’s fos- 
ter-brother could sacrifice anything in marrying 
her.” 

“ Ah ! but, Alice, suppose / am the laird ! Suppose 
that I changed places with my foster-brother, 
because I wanted to see in her true colors this 
cousin of mine to whom I was to be sold } Suppose 
that I love you so well that I would gladly give up 
Dairg and all its lands to win you ?” 

“ Donald ! Donald ! If, indeed, I could .suppose 
this, I should be the happiest girl in all the world.” 

But she would not yet reveal her true character. 
She wandered out with him on the moonlit sands, 
and listened with a happy heart to all his plans. 
He would give up Dairg to his uncle Thomas ; it 
was mortgaged to its last acre ; and for his part, he 
was glad so true a Dalrymple was able and willing 
to keep there the old ancestral state. His uncle 
was a born noble, and had promised him, at all 
events, a fine company ; and with Alice to love, and 
a good sword to cut his way to fame and fortune, he 
was more than content. 


164 Jkfrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


Kate had never before* been so bewitching; she 
set herself now to charm anew, and the young laird 
was proud beyond all counting of the woman he had 
won, although he really believed her to be poor 
enough, save in love and beauty. 

Their radiant faces and the joyful confidence of 
their manners told their position at once to their 
companions, and Alice said, as soon as they were 
alone : 

“We have done a very foolish thing, Kate. This 
young laird is really beginning to like me, and there 
was more in Donald’s face and yours to-night than 
your father will sanction. We have played a foolish 
game, Kate.” 

“ We have played wiser than we knew, Alice. 
Did it ever strike you that the Laird of Dalrymple 
may have played me back my own card ?” 

Then- Kate told softly over again the laird’s own 
tale, and the two girls laughed a little, and cried a 
little, and were very pleasantly and happily 
astonished. 

“We must go home now, Alice. I must tell father 
at once, and I don’t want, just yet, to tell Sholto. 
Let us see if his love will stand a week’s reflection.’’ 

So the party broke up for a week. The young 
men were to go to Edinburgh until they received a 
summons from Glasgow, and then return and 
arrange everything pertaining to the transfer of 
Dairg, and the marriage of Alice with Mr. Thomas 
Dalrymple. 

The provost was highly delighted when Kate told 


Kate Dalrymple. 165 


him how completely she had been taken in her own 
net. It was,” he said, “ Dalrymple again’ Dalrym- 
ple, and baith have won and he kept laughing out 
merrily at intervals, for the whole next week, at 
“ Mistress Kate playing sae cannilie into her ain 
hand.” 

The young laird was a little amazed at the cheer- 
fulness of his uncle’s greeting ; but it was Dairg he 
was wanting, no doubt, he thought, “ and he will 
care little enough for me now.” 

‘‘ So you have fallen in love wi’ the wrang party, 
Sholto ; but that’s nane o’ my doing, lad, an’ you 
must not lay it to me.” 

“ Not I, uncle. I get Alice, and you are welcome 
to Dairg. I am glad it is going into such worthy 
hands.” 

“ Yes, yes ; dootless I’ll look weel to its prosperity, 
Sholto ; but I wish — ” 

“ Never mind that uncle — I am satisfied. If you 
will have the necessary papers made out, Dairg 
shall be yours whenever you wish.” 

“ The papers are a' ready, Sholto. But send your 
traps up to my house. You maun stay wi’ me until 
this commission an’ marrying business is over.” 

So the young men removed to the provost man- 
sion, and when he came down for dinner, in all the 
pomp of his velvet suit and lace ruffles and golden 
badge, he found them waiting for him in the draw- 
ing-room. 

“ All alone by yoursel’s, young men he said 
cheerily ;” the lasses will be here anon and he 
seemed in such extravagant spirits that Sholto 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


1 66 


Dalrymple could hardly help doing his uncle’s great 
heart a great injustice. 

Presently the door opened, and Sholto rose 
eagerly to meet his affianced bride. Her magnifi- 
cent dress and costly jewels startled him, and threw 
quite into the shade the plain black silk robe of her 
companion. Before, however, he could identify any 
single thought but that of admiration and amaze- 
ment, the provost advanced to the ladies, and, taking 
one by each arm, led them toward the laird and his 
foster-brothef. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, gleefully, ye hae gotten 
your introductions a mixed up, so I’ll just sort a’ of 
your names right, afore we get our dinners. Sholto 
Dalrymple, Laird o’ Dairg, this is Mistress Kate 
Dalrymple and Kate with a loving smile, looked 
into Sholto’s face and slipped her hand into his. 

^^Alicer 

“ ^ Kate i if you please, Sholto.” 

“ Yes, indeed, Sholto, and dinna ye think, young 
man, you can play pliskies wi’ a Dalrymple for 
naught. Ha ! ha ! you got paid in your ain coin 
this time, my laddie ! Come awa,’ all o’ you ; I 
winna hae my fish cauld to suit your havering ; and 
there I see Donald and bonnie Alice Pierson have 
been introducing themselves ; but ye hae got things 
right this time.” 

It was a wonderful dinner, and when, at its close, 
the provost brewed his glass of toddy, and handed 
Kate and Alice their “ thimbleful,” they were quite 
ready to drink the new family toast : Here's to the 
Dalrymples of Dair^. Who's like them I" 



WITH HER EYES OPEN. 


I was standing on Rutherglen Bridge, looking 
down into the Clyde, and thinking of unhappy Mary 
Stuart, who on that very spot turned in her saddle 
and fired upon her rebellious, pursuing subjects. 
My mind was full of the dramatic situation, and its 
romantic antecedents, when I heard a voice passing 
me say : 

“Weel, weel, lad ! If ye think money the one 
thing needful, tak’ yer ain gate. Bessie is a bonnie 
lassie. She’ll easy find them as think so, too.” 

I did not need to turn my head. I knew the 
speaker well enough, and though the words of his 
companion did not reach me, I knew, too, their quick, 
incisive tones. Here was old David Gillespie, who 
had saved a little money by hard work and hard 
ecomony, urging his only child to marry the penni- 
less daughter of an old friend, and Dr. J ames Gilles- 
pie, the said only child, aged twenty-six, was argu- 
ing in favor of Jean Cathcart’s “ house and siller” 
versus Bessie Lang’s pretty face. 


[167] 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


1 68 


Two years before, young Gillespie had found it 
very pleasant to love Bessie Lang ; to-day he could 
not help comparing her homely dress with Jenny’s 
rich attire, and her humble occupation with the 
heiress’s position as mistress of an elegant home 
and thirty thousand pounds. 

James needed money. He had tastes in wines, 
dress and every other luxury, far beyond his means, 
and cared more to be thought a fine gentleman and 
an elegant fellow than a clever physician and an 
honest man — facts of which Jean Cathcart was 
ignorant. 

I might have spoken to Jean about these matters, 
for a few months previously we had been school- 
mates ; but her advent into society had lifted her 
beyond my ordinary sympathies. Yet when spring 
came, and I knew she would return to her pretty 
country home, I went to bid her good-bye. 

Dr. Gillespie was leaving the drawing-room as I 
entered it ; and there was something in both his 
and Jean’s face which led me to fear that I had 
made a very mat apropos visit. 

Jean watched the doctor far down the street, and 
then throwing herself into a chair, with a smile and 
a sigh, said : 

“ I shall pay dearly for my whistle, little one ; 
but then it is a very handsome whistle.” 

It seems she had heard all about James’s faults, 
and I exclaimed : 

“ Do you believe these things, Jean ?” 

She walked to the window and tapped the glass 
decisively as she answered : 


With Her Eyes Open, 


169 


“Yes, I believe them.” 

“ And you are going to marry him ?” 

“lam going to marry him. I love him, and he 
needs me. I love him with my whole life and my 
whole fortune. I love him with my eyes open to 
all his faults. I have no vocation for marrying a 
saint.” 

“ But if these things are true of him, cannot you 
see, Jean, where they will lead you ?” 

“ I see that they will probably lead me into sor- 
row, perhaps into poverty. I have counted the 
cost, and am willing to pay it.” 

And Jean persevered in her intention. People 
said she was foolish, infatuated, wickedly careless 
of the happiness a kind Providence had apparently 
secured her. Her uncle remonstrated, her friends 
advised ; but in the beginning of June there was a 
fine wedding in St. Mary’s, and Dr. and Mrs. Gil- 
lespie went to Paris for their wedding trip. 

They returned for the winter, and kept, during it, 
the gayest house in Glasgow. Old Jonas Cathcart’s 
money flowed in a manner which would have killed 
him if he had been alive. They gave extravagant 
dinners, they kept many servants, they drove a pair 
of fine horses, the doctor indulged his taste for fine 
dress to the uttermost, and Jean’s Parisian wardrobe 
was an astonishment. 

It was at this time that I spent several weeks 
with them, during which Jean afforded me a study 
of which I never wearied. Below all her reckless- 
ness I could perceive a deep purpose, an object 
which I was quite sure she rated higher than any 


170 


Mrs. Ba7'rs Short Stories. 


amount of social consideration or wealth. One 
thing was clearly evident— that however far J ames’s 
love 'had been simulated at the time of their mar- 
riage, he was now honestly and passionately in love 
with the little dark woman he had won ; and she 
grew really beautiful in this consciousness, though 
it was evident to me the gay life she was leading 
was very distasteful to her. 

One night, just before the parlors were lit, I went 
up to her room. She was dressed for dinner, and 
was sitting before the low grate, half stooping 
toward the blaze, at which she warmed her jeweled 
hands. There was such a weary, pathetic look on 
her face, that I involuntarily said : 

“ Jean, are you sick ?” 

She sighed heavily, and answered slowly, drop- 
ping the words one by one : 

No, love, I am only tired. I wonder how long 
this is to last !” 

“ But why not give it up and go back to Cathcart ? 
Live as you like to live.” 

“I am not living for myself, Edith, I want 
James to see the height and the depth, the length 
and the breadth of his ambition ; he must carry 
into a new life no shadowy hopes and excuses. I 
think I am doing him the greatest possible kindness 
— some day, I hope, he will see it ; do not speak 
more about him at present.” 

The next autumn I met the Gillespies at a water- 
ing-place, and then for the first time I noticed a vague, 
restless doubt about Jean, which gave a strange, 
eager, questioning character to her face and man- 


With Her Eyes Ope 7 t, 171 


ners. I did not understand it then, but toward 
Christmas, Jean had a little daughter, and then I 
could read what before was dark. Evidently with 
the dawn of motherhood had come a perception of 
duties that might conflict with her other plans and 
turn her sacrifice into a ruin. The little Grace had 
claims now, as well as James, and it was pitiful to 
watch the struggles and efforts of the mother to 
meet both. 

Retrenchment was the first symptom. They 
retired to Cathcart, and Doctor James professed 
to begin practice in the village. But old habits 
and old obligations were too strong for him. 
He was oppressed with debts, of which Jean 
knew nothing, and which he could only hope 
to meet by continuing his operations on the 
turf. But poverty has its peculiar atmosphere. 
Men, in some occult but certain way, divined 
that James Gillespie was “hard up,” and the in- 
stinct of humanity is to prey upon this condition. 

Things rapidly became worse, and although Jean 
had been expecting this, it gave her a sickening 
shock when, for the first time, he wanted money to 
buy clothing and could not get it — wanted to pay 
bills and her purse was empty. So accustomed 
had she been for years to go to a certain drawer 
in her cabinet for cash, that she still kept going, 
unable to persuade herself that it could possibly be 
empty. 

In these gradually darkening days she had, how- 
ever, two great comforts. James began to be 
thoroughly weary of what he had hitherto called 


172 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


‘■‘life” — began to see through the hollowness of 
friendships founded on interest, and to have dark, 
sorrowful hours of regret for his wasted years and 
abilities ; and James’s father, who had withdrawn 
in silent pride and indignation from their extrav- 
agant home, now began to come frequently to 
Cathcart to see Jean and his little granddaughter. 
True, he timed these visits so as to avoid James, 
but it was quite plain that James’s wife had com- 
pletely won his heart. 

“She’s a wonderful little woman, yon,” he would 
say, with a pleasant smile, when any one spoke to 
him of her. 

The end which all had foreseen, and which Jean 
had so calmly waited for, came at last. It was on 
one raw spring day, when the rain poured steadily 
down, and the skies looked as if the sun would never 
shine again. James had been away for a week, and 
Jean was walking up and down the silent parlor 
with her second baby in her arms. She heard the 
garden-gate shut with a clash, and then up the 
plashed, leafless avenue came James Gillespie, with 
his head bent before the storm that r^ed within 
and without him. 

Jean watched him a moment, and then sat com. 
posedly down. 

“ Now, it is here,” she said. “ Good heart, be brave 
and kind !” She rang for the nurse, gave the child 
to her care, and waited. 

In a few minutes James entered. She glanced 
timidly at him, and then rose to greet him with a 
smile, for there was something on his face she liked 


With He7' Eyes Open, 


173 


right well — an air of decision, that influenced even 
his walk, which had changed from its usual elegant 
lounge to a firm, quick tread. 

“Jean! Jean!” he said, impetuously. “I have 
been a fool, but I have come to my senses. Can 
you forgive me 

“ 'Deed, Jamie, dear, there’s naught a loving 
woman likes sae much !” for Jean was apt to fall 
into the expressive vernacular when much moved. 

“We are utterly ruined.” 

“ Not by a good deal, I think, Jamie.” 

“ Even Cathcart is heavily mortgaged.” 

“ Let it go.” 

“ If we sell it and pay all I owe, you won’t have 
fifty pounds.” 

“ I have still a larger fortune than that which we 
have spent.” 

“Oh ! Jean, wife, where ?” 

“ In your brain and heart and hands. Do you 
remember, when we were first married, taking me 
to see your old teacher. Dr. Kinnaird of Edinburgh, 
and what he said ?” 

“ I thought he was very impudent.” 

“ He said these words, James ; I have never for- 
gotten them: ‘You’ve made a fool and a fop o’ 
yoursel’, laddie, in marrying siller — you, that might 
ha’e been the first surgeon i’ the whole land !’ And, 
James, the words hurt me, so I went to see the 
good man, and he told me, plainly : ‘ Madam, your 

husband is a fool at present, but he is a born sur- 
geon for a’ that ; but he’ll do naught, he’ll do 
naught while the siller lasts. When he hasn’t a 


174 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


bawbee, my woman, send him to me — send him to 
me.’ ” 

“And so, Jean, you want me now to go to Dr. 
Kinnaird ?” 

“ Yes, my husband ; go, and do whatever he tells 
you. We shall have to be poor for a little while, 
Jamie, but we shall be happier than we have ever 
been." 

Out of this conversation much grew. Jean was a 
practical little body ; she made clear notes of every 
debt owing, and then gave orders to her lawyer to 
put Cathcart immediately in the market. 

“I wonder," said James, when he saw the grim 
sum total, “ I wonder if Cathcart will pay it." 

“Not more, Janies; therefore the sooner you 
begin to work the better. Have you enough to 
take you to Edinburgh ?" 

“ I have nearly a sovereign." 

“ You must make it do. We will ask no one, not 
even father, to help us. We will find ground for 
our feet, and stand upon it." 

So, next evening, James Gillespie was sitting in 
Dr. Kinnaird’s parlor, talking to him. 

“ Have you got rid o’ the siller, man ?’’ 

“ Yes, Doctor." 

“ Every bawbee ?’’ 

“ I have about five shillings." 

“ Well, you may keep that to buy your ait- meal 
wi’ for a week. If you come as my assistant you’ll 
begin at twenty shillings a week — paid when you’ve 
earned them — and I’ll raise the wages as I see you 
come to it." 


With Her Eyes Open, 


175 


To be Dr. Kinnaird’s assistant at any price was 
hope enough for any young surgeon, although the 
office was one of constant wear upon the physique 
and feelings. Very soon the dormant passion of 
the born surgeon became the master passion. In 
two months James Gillespie would have followed 
John Kinnaird for love through all the hospitals of 
Europe. 

It was about this time that the old doctor said : 

“James, when is your wife coming to you?” 

“ Next week, sir ; she has sold Cathcart, paid 
every penny I owe, and has about sixty pounds to 
the fore.” 

“ And you are gaun to live forever on that, like 
twa happy young fools, eh ?” 

“ I have rented a small ‘ flat,’ and we are going 
to furnish it with the sixty pounds, and live upon 
wl\at you pay me.” 

“ You need na have told me that, man — I feel 
obligated now to double your salary.” 

James smiled, and said : “ Thank you. Doctor.” 

While Jean lived in her “ small flat,” I went to see 
her ; and it was a very pleasant sight. She had 
grown into a positively handsome woman, and her 
clever husband fairly idolized her and the children. 

Whether Dr. Kinnaird thought the discipline 
necessary or not, I cannot say, but he kept James 
in the same position for nearly two years. There 
was another son by this time ; it was to be called 
“ David,” after its grandfather, and old David Gil- 
lespie was coming to the baptism, which was to be 
celebrated at the New Year’s festival. 


176 Mrs, Barr's Short Stories, 


Jean was a little troubled how to arrange things 
in her small rooms, but even while she stood in one 
of her wise, considering moods, Dr. Kinnaird sent 
her a letter, saying that he had furnished a little 
house of his to suit himself, and would Mrs. Gilles- 
pie please accept the care of it for five years ; the 
rent was to be a cup of tea whenever he chose to 
come for it. 

The next day he stopped to watch James at the 
dissecting-table, and amid surgical directions and 
comments, blurted out : 

“You’re an extravagant couple, you and that 
dusky little wife of yours — look at that artery — 
carrying such a house over your twa simple heads 
— cut a little deeper — I’ll ha’e to raise your wage 
again. Five hundred a year you’ll need to keep it 
up — use your circular-saw, man — it’ll be five hun- 
dred out o’ my pocket.” ^ 

“ Thank you. Doctor !” 

“ Oh, it’s easy said, is ‘ Thank you. Doctor ;’ but 
if you’ll keep out o’ debt and sin, I dinna care.” 

“ I don’t owe a penny, sir.” 

“ Then, sir, you are on the highway to fortune ; 
dinna put a drag upon your feet — debt is worse than 
a ball and chain to a working man.” 

The good doctor’s words proved true ; there is 
not to-day a more skillful surgeon than James Gil- 
lespie. A far larger and handsomer “ Cathcart ” is 
the home of Jean and her twelve fine sons and 
daughters, and her thirty thousand pounds have 
come back to her with noble increase and loving 
thanks. 




jam::s machargs’s tejiper. — Bee Page 179 . 









James Macharg’s Temper. 


“ My James has sic a high temper, every thing 
that goes contrary gars him lose it.” 

“ You speak, sister-in-law, as if a high temper was 
a kind o’ merit; and as for losing it,’ that’s the 
thing James Macharg never does. As far as I can 
see, he aye exchanges it for whatever he hankers 
for at the time. He has just gi’en you a bit o’ it for 
his ain way about yon Caird lassie.” 

“ And what think you, brother, o’ Isabel Caird for 
a wife for our Jamie ?” 

“ She’s handsome, and she comes o’ a guid kind ; 
forbye, if like cures like, there is sax o’ ane and 
half-dozen o’ t’ither, in the matter o’ temper !” 

“ A man maun wed where his weird is, and I’m 
feard James has set his heart on Isabel.” 

Mrs. Macharg’s fears justified themselves. When 
James came home that night, he told his mother 
that Isabel had accepted him, and that the marriage 
day was fixed. He looked so happy that his mother 
fell readily into his sanguine humor, and Isabel’s 

[177] 



178 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


beauty and fortune were for half an hour the theme 
of unstinted praise. At length Mrs. Macharg ven- 
tured to say that she had heard Isabel had a high 
temper. 

James admitted the fact rather proudly. He pre- 
ferred a “ reasonable service,” like that Isabel would 
give him, to the matter-of-course obedience of some 
meek and mild woman. 

“ But Isabel has a way o’ her ain, Jamie.” 

My will will be her way'* 

“It has always been her will and her way in the 
Caird house.” 

“ Duncan Caird is a weak body. I have always 
held my own so far, and it is not Isabel Caird that 
will turn my ‘ yes ’ into ‘ no,’ by either wile or wis- 
dom.” 

Isabel never attempted to disguise her arbitrary 
temper, or feared to exhibit it before her lover. In 
the monotonous life of that little country town, 
James began to feel a certain pleasant excitement 
in the battle for supremacy he saw before him. 
They disputed freely on most things, but came to 
their first open battle on the subject of the marriage 
ceremony. Isabel declared her own minister should 
perform the rite. James had such serious doubts 
about his “ views ” that it became a matter of con- 
science to oppose it. Isabel compromised by 
accepting an additional hundred pounds to her set- 
tlements. A moral victory is greater than a money 
victory ; she had virtually lost the first battle. 

During the first long winter and spring of Isabel’s 
married life, none dreamed that in the handsome 


James Machar^s Temper, 


179 


home of the Machargs a real tragedy was enacting. 
None knew the nights of passionate weeping, the 
sullen, silent days, the hopeful concessions, the 
despairing resistances. For evil grows upon the 
wrong that feeds it, and it had become a kind of 
mania with James to force his wife to acts of absurd 
obedience. 

She would not complain to her father, and was 
too proud to discover her misery to her servants. 
The birth of a son only put her more and more in 
her husband's power. When she was deaf and 
dumb, and impervious to all other tortures, he could 
always touch her through her boy ; and such a mad- 
ness is a wicked temper, that though he really loved 
the child, he did not scruple to make it suffer in 
order to arouse Isabel’s wildest wrath ; for long 
indulgence of temper had made an ordinary quarrel 
tame. He found his keenest pleasure in mastering 
a passion equal to his own. 

This new feature of his vice brought his punish- 
ment. The child’s nurse was Janet McRoy, a High- 
land woman of strong character and intense feelings. 

One day she turned upon him with a passion far 
more extravagant than his own, and after lashing 
him with Celtic scorn and sarcasm, put him out of 
the room. 

What passed between Isabel and Janet that night 
could only be conjectured. The woman had traveled 
far and much, and doubtless advised the step Isabel 
took. James had ordered her to leave the house at 
the end of her month’s service, and the night before 


i8o 


Jkfrs. Bai^r^s Short Sio7'tes. 


it was over, Isabel and her child disappeared with 
her. 

It was then discovered that, during the ten days 
previous, all business relating to her private fortune 
had been transferred to a Liverpool firm. Doubt- 
less, Isabel had, at last, taken her father into her 
confidence, for he admitted that he suspected her 
flight, but denied all knowledge of her whereabouts. 

James had now good cause for anger. His wife 
had not only run away with his heir, but declared to 
her father and her lawyer that his cruelty and bad 
temper were the reason. It was a revenge more 
keen than Isabel had any conception of. He idolized 
his own fair name — he loved his son, after his own 
way — even Isabel was necessary to diis happiness in 
the stagnant, petty life he lived ; beside Jwhich, he 
could not escape remorse, ennui ^ and the silent and 
the outspoken scorn of the whole community. 

Every effort to discover the fugitives failed, and 
two years afterward Isabel’s father disappeared in 
the same silent manner. His property had been 
turned into cash, and it was universally believed 
that he had gone to his daughter. The “ high tem- 
per” of which James’s mother had been so proud, 
now gave her sorrow enough, for he had quarreled 
with all his acquaintances, and spent his time in a 
wretched, remorseful accusation of every one but 
himself. 

If he could have forgotten that he was a husband 
and father, it might have been better ; but once 
every year Isabel’s lawyer sent him this message : 

Your wife and child are well and happy” — neither 


James Macharjs Temper. 


i8i 


more nor less, for eight wretched years. Then he 
was told, in the same manner, that Mr. Caird was 
dead. In the eleventh year of Isabel’s absence, 
James’s mother, worn out with the evil spirit she 
had encouraged, sank wearily into the grave. 
James had little sympathy ; indeed, he professed to 
be averse to it, and was very generally let alone. 

During that winter he was amazed to receive one 
day a letter from his wife. She said: Dear James, 
I hear that you are now alone. I have forgotten 
everything but my love for you. Can you also for- 
give?” The message gave him a new life. He 
thought of the triumph it would give him in the 
town ; he thought of his son, and even imagined 
how much brighter the house would be with Isabel. 
For the sake of these things he believed he could 
forgive and control himself in the future. He did 
not wish his reply to be too eager, and yet it must 
express some anxiety, or Isabel would not come. 
After many efforts, he decided on three words — 
“ Dear wife, come'' 

Then he waited and watched, week after week, 
getting more fierce and angfry as the time passed 
away. At the end of the fifth week, he gave up all 
hope. Six weeks after he had sent his gracious 
permission, Isabel, his son and Janet McRoy drove 
up to his door. As soon as he saw them all, the old 
domineering, contradictious spirit took possession of 
him. With a great effort he compelled himself to 
bid them welcome, but the cold, dreary house smote 
Isabel with a chill forboding of sorrow. In less than 


i 82 


Mrs, Barr^s Short Stories, 


a week she perceived she had come back to a ten- 
fold struggle. 

First, James insisted on Janet’s dismissal, a 
demand Isabel constantly resisted. Then he under- 
took his son’s education, and the lad lost all ability 
to learn, in the terror which the father’s passions 
inspired. One day, when there was a very noisy 
scene, Isabel went into the study ; James was strik- 
ing the child unmercifully, and the boy’s tearful 
eyes, lifted to hers, kindled again in her heart the 
passion she believed twelve years of discipline had 
conquered. A terrible scene ensued. Janet again 
interfered, and twelve hours later Isabel was a 
corpse, with her baby dead in her arms. The doc- 
tor whispered the word “ premature the town said 
openly “murder,” and the really wretched victim 
of an ungovernable temper wandered miserably 
about his self- cursed home. 

Two days after the funeral, Janet and his son 
again disappeared. He followed them like a mad- 
man, and this time discovered that they had sailed 
for New York. Indeed, Isabel had wisely retained 
the home she had made there, and Janet knew they 
would be safer within its walls than anywhere else. 
James sought them long in vain, and finally drifted 
into the great current setting westward. Such men 
as James Macharg run to extremes. He began to 
seek relief from his own thoughts in a wild, reck- 
less life, which, in a few years, drained him of his 
last shilling, and left him with a company of Arkan 
sas gamblers, in every sense a ruined man. Then 
he wandered about the great Southwest, his violent 


James Machargs Temper, 


183 


temper making him the dread of the cowardly vil- 
lains with whom he consorted, until in a moment of 
frenzy, he did that deed which sent him flying like 
Cain from their companionship. 

This was the end of a ten-year career of extrav- 
agance and vSin. No one who remembered the 
proud, proper young Scotch laird of twenty- seven, 
could have believed this ragged, reckless, fierce man. 
drinking raw brandy and gambling with loaded 
pistols and drawn knife by his side, was the same 
human soul and body. 

But even such demons find their equals ; and 
one night, in a lonely log-hut, the resort of evil men 
of all kinds, James Macharg was worsted in a fight, 
and left lying on the earthen floor, bleeding from a 
dozen wounds. An old negro woman, who had had 
plenty of experience in such cases, laid him on a 
rude pallet, and took him in charge. Something in 
James attracted her, and in her brutal way she 
defended him, and cared for him. 

He spent fourteen terrible months on that pallet, 
amid scenes which defy description. How they 
looked to the half-delirious or frightfully depressed 
man, no one can conceive. Long, hot days, and dark 
hot nights, and men gambling, cursing, drinking 
and fighting by his side. Many a time, too, his only 
friend was sullen or away or drunk, and for nights 
and days he suffered all the tortures of hunger, 
thirst and mortal terror. Moreover, he was obliged 
now to control his tongue and temper ; his negro 
friend had him quite at her mercy, and for every 
outbreak took prompt and terrible revenge. 


184 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


He was just beginning to crawl about again, 
when, one day, a large party of surveyors made a 
camp on the creek below the cabin. With a pitiful 
humility, he asked their assistance and protection, 
and was directed to the leader of the expedition, a 
young man of singularly handsome exterior. 

“ What is your name, my poor fellow ?” 

James Macharg, sir.” 

“ Of Larges, Scotland ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

The young man appeared to be greatly affected, 
and leading him into his tent, said, gently and 
solemnly : 

Father r 

“Oh, Jamie, Jamie!” was all the poor invalid 
could sob out, as he sank exhausted upon the 
ground. 

In the long weeks and months of convalescence 
which followed, when the father hung often between 
life and death, the son acquired an influence over him 
which was never lost, and which was always wisely 
used. This influence, united with bitter experi- 
ence, did, in some measure, for the elder Macharg, 
at fifty years of age, what ought to have been 
done at five. Not that the old vice was ever quite 
conquered ; but it was so far controlled that James’s 
wife and children learned to love “ grandfather,” 
and to make of his frequent visits to them little 
household festivals. Still the old man himself 
could never forget that he had wasted fifty years of 
his life, and sacrificed, to the ungovernable vice of 
ill temper, wife, fortune, friends and good name. 


“I DON’T CARE.” 


** I don’t care what people say, father ; I suppose 
I am old enough to judge for myself.” 

“ It’s no’ a bad thing, Gavin, to mind what ither 
folks say about you. When you really get to ‘ I 
don’t care,’ you are in a bad way. I hope, for all 
you have said, you dinna mean a word o’ it.” 

“ I just mean it all. I don’t care ! I am going to 
say what I like, and do what I like, in the future.” 

“ Then it’s nane o’ my money I’ll give you the 
day, Gavin. If ‘ don’t care ’ is the road you are for 
taking, the sooner you come to the end o’ your 
tether the better for you. But you’ll cool. Doubt- 
less you’ll cool, an’ come to yoursel’, lad,” and 
old Bailie Irwin took out his bandanna, and threw 
it over his face. 

“ Don’t go to sleep, father, till you answer me a 
question or two. Do you mean me to stay in 
Forbes’s office much longer ?” 

“ You were entered there for three years ; you ken 
weel if your time is out or no.” 

“ But, father, he is such a bigoted, narrow, strict 
old fogy, and—” 


[185] 



Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


1 86 


‘‘ You’ve been lang finding it out, Gavin. I’m 
thinking you may thole it for a few months longer. 
Stick to your ’greement, lad, like an honest fellow.” 

But, father, I have got my eyes opened lately, 
an — 

“ Hech ! wha’s opened them ? Yon Crieff lassie 
eh ?” 

“ Father, Jessie Crieff is an angel !” 

“ I wish she was. It’s no’ an ill wish, that, Gavin, 
for any lassie ; but I’m thinking she’s far awa’ from 
it yet.” 

Gavin Irwin had been two years in Duncan 
Forbes’s house and office, and not felt his strict 
rules and old-fashioned ways particularly unbear- 
able. But a few weeks ago, a pretty villa belong- 
ing to the Baronry of Crieff had been occupied as a 
summer residence by the gay Miss Crieff and her 
aunt ; and Miss Jessie had chosen to enliven the 
monotony of her retirement by paying a great deal 
of attention to the handsome Gavin Irwin. Jessie 
Crieff was one of a type of young ladies peculiar to 
the last half century, and unhappily increasing — 
a fast, superficial woman, who thought dissent, 
doubt and indifference were the symptoms of intel- 
lectual superiority. She shrugged her pretty 
shoulders at the most sacred subjects, and smiled 
away the faith of centuries with a pity so fascin- 
ating, and so full of interest, that it was small won- 
der a young self-admiring fellow like Gavin should 
be impressed and bewildered by her sophistries. 

He went straight to Crieff Villa after his inter- 
view with Mr. Irwin, and found a much more sym- 


“ I DofUt Care,^' 


187 


pathetic listener; Jessie was so kind that Gavin 
went back to his little room at Duncan Forbes’s 
with very high hopes, and very wide ideas indeed, 
as to the respective position of man and man, 
though, of course, the old lawyer, not having been 
taking a lesson from Miss Crieff, was ill-prepared to 
understand him. 

“ Gavin,” said he, kindly, “ the new minister has 
come, I hope you’ll like him better than you have 
done Mr. Stirling, lately.” 

“ I shall not hear him, sir, to-morrow. I have 
made up my mind to fish in the morning, and have 
promised to drive out with Miss Crieff in the after- 
noon.” 

• You’ll no’ mak’ a scandal o’ that kind on the 
Lord’s Day, Gavin Irwin ; forbye shaming the 
guid old man, your father.” 

“ If people choose to be shamed and scandalized 
where they have no call to be, that’s not my fault, 
sir. There is no law against fishing and driving 
that I know of.” 

No’ to speak o’ the law o’ God, Gavin, there’s 
whiles a higher law than the statute book — there’s 
public opinion.” 

“ I don’t care that for public opinion and Gavin 
snapped his thumb and finger contemptuously. 

“ Then you are a fool, or worse, an’ I’m sorry for 
them that are kin to you.” 

Gavin kept his word, and rather ostentatiously so, 
for he strolled slowly up the main street of the 
village, with his rod and creel, just as the people 
were going to church. He certainly had the satis- 


i88 


Mrs. Barr s Short Stories. 


faction of perfectly horrifying them. His drive 
with Miss Crieff was a still greater offense. 

“ A pretty, painted, Frenchified infidel I” said 
Duncan Forbes, bitterly ; “ a lassie wha’ scorns the 
kirk, an’ measures e’en the word o’ the Lord by her 
ain small understanding. Gavin Irwin is courting 
dool an’ disgrace, an’ nae guid lad will sort wi’ 
him.” 

Everybody shared the lawyer’s opinion ; and the 
young men who sat at the same table with Gavin 
gave the offender but the scantiest courtesy, and 
quite excluded him from all their little social plans. 
While Jessie remained in Campsaile, he did not care 
much ; he chose to call it “jealousy ” and “ envy,” 
and paraded his friendship with the Baron of Crieff’s* 
sister very offensively to all his old acquaintances. 

But Jessie left Campsaile with the summer-birds 
and flowers, and very soon after this event Gavin’s 
time was out with Lawyer Forbes. He was very 
anxious to buy a share in the lawyer’s business, and 
his father was now inclined to please him. 

But Forbes declined all Mr. Irwin’s offers, and 
plainly told the old man that his son’s unpopularity 
would injure his custom. 

“Our steady folk, ye ken, neighbor, like a man 
who walks i’ the old ways ; we are a’ plain bodies 
an’ hae sma’ skill o’ these new philos’phies ; the law 
o’ God an’ the law o’ Scotland is just as much as we 
can manage.” 

Gavin was much hurt and disappointed. He was 
young, and wanted friends and company, and no one 
responded to his advances. 


“ / Do n t Care. 


189 


Winter came on, and it was so dreary that Gavin 
took the next wrong step. As good people would 
not notice him, he fell into bad company. Any one 
knows how rapidly a man may travel on this down- 
ward road. Gavin soon began to “ take a glass,” 
and then, not to care who knew it ; “ better men 
than he got before the wind occasionally.” He had 
long ceased going to church, and pretty Maggie 
Lindsey, who had dared to smile in his face long 
after her mother and her sister cut him directly, 
had now ceased to notice him, and given her smiles 
to Alexander Forbes, his special aversion. 

The winter passed, and in the spring the news of 
Miss Crieff’s marriage to Lord Clyde came to Camp- 
saile. It was a very bitter drop added to his cup, 
for Gavin had felt sure that Jessie would return with 
summer, and explain in some satisfactory manner 
her mysterious silence ; and to the loss of this hope 
was added the spiteful condolences or the open sar- 
casms of all who knew him. 

He thought his cup was quite full, but a greater 
sorrow awaited him. One evening, in the early 
summer. Bailie Irwin quietly died in his chair, of 
heart-disease, and the villagers did not scruple to 
say that Gavin’s conduct had hastened his end. No 
one had a kind word for him except the new min- 
ister, a man whom Gavin had always avoided, parti)'’ 
because he was his father’s chief friend and confi- 
dant, and partly because he disliked his admonitions. 
Now, however, they were compelled to come in con- 
tact, and Gavin at last did justice to the good man’s 
kindly nature. 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


190 


But he took the ten thousand pounds his father had 
left him, and left Campsaile, as he supposed, forever. 
The minister thought not. 

He can’t sell the house and the twenty acres 
round it, wifie, and he’ll come home again. I 
promised his father I would be watching for him.” 

It seemed a hopeless kind of watching. Year 
after year slipped away, and no one heard a word 
from Gavin Irwin. The rent of the house was 
remitted to a firm he had chosen in Liverpool, for 
five years ; then the tenant left, and for three years 
more the Irwin place stood empty. In those three 
years the minister often wondered where the lost 
lad was. The rent of the homestead, while it was 
rented, was enough for life’s necessities, but now — 
what was he doing ? 

He was seeing many extremes. He had been a 
supercargo to the tropics, and in a whaling ship to 
the Atlantic Ocean. He had been a successful 
speculator in New York, and he had been digging for 
gold in Australia. He had been gambling with 
princes in Baden-Baden, and fighting for his rights 
with the roughs of Nevada. But one night, ten 
years after his father’s death, when he was just 
recovering from an attack of the terrible vo^nito in 
Metamoras, he suddenly bethought him of the pleas, 
ant old home among the breezy hills. He heard in 
his soul the chime of the church-bells, and the faint, 
sweet music of the people singing psalms, just as he 
heard them on that Sunday morning when he went 
fishing to please the fair and fickle Jessie Crieff ; 
and an intense desire for those cool, old rooms and 


I DonH Care'' 


191 


scented garden ways, for the murmuring trout becks 
and broom-covered hills possessed him. 

He feebly sought for his purse and counted his 
money. Yes, there was enough left to clothe him 
decently and carry him home ; and he would be 
content henceforward to farm his father’s acres, 
and live and worship as his father had done. He 
had to travel slowly, but one evening, ten weeks 
afterward, he got off a Clyde steamer, and stood once 
more on the little Campsaile pier. No one knew 
him. 

He stopped a little girl to ask if Dr. Anderson still 
lived at the manse, and then took his way quietly 
toward it. As he opened the garden-gate, a lovely 
girl looked up from her carnations at him. He 
asked timidly for the minister, and she led him into 
the well-known parlor, with its low roof and old- 
fashioned furniture. Dr. Anderson came thought- 
fully in, looked at Gavin curiously, held out his 
hand, and the moment he spoke, said : 

“ I thought so ! Welcome home ! Welcome . 
home ! I promised your father to say this much for 
him when this glad day came round ! I’m a proud 
man to do it, sir ! Lucy ! Lucy ! bring some cakes 
and a glass of cream. You 11 be glad, Gavin, I know 
you will, to taste the wholesome oatmeal again.” 

And so he ran on while he took off Gavin’s hat 
and coat, and gave a score of hospitable orders. 

So Gavin stayed at the manse for some weeks, and 
what passed between the minister and him no one 
ever knew ; but I think Gavin told him most of 
those ten years’ sins and failures. But he had 


192 


Jlfrs. Barr^s Short Stories. 


come home now, he said, to repair his father’s house 
and live in it ; perhaps in time he might win again 
the respect of his father’s friends. 

Dr. Anderson heard and rejoiced. He gave Gavin 
one hundred pounds, which he said was rent due 
him and advised him to begin at once putting the 
place in order. It would employ him while he 
looked around, and it was best not to be in a hurry 
with any plan. So Gavin stayed all summer with 
the minister, and by the end of it — as any one might 
have foreseen — he had but one thought in life — 
Lucy Anderson. He was almost sure Lucy loved 
him, too, but he had never dared to speak to her. 
But one night, as he sat full of dreary thoughts about 
his wasted past, Lucy came and touched him. 

“ Mr. Irwin,” she said, “ you are sad, and you make 
me miserable. What is the matter ?” 

“ I love — and I am unworthy to love.” 

“ Did she say so ?” 

“ Lucy ! Oh, Lucy V 

. Love has manifold ways of explaining itself. 
These two looked in each other’s eyes, and saw all 
they wanted. But the father was not so sanguine. 
He remembered the past ten years, and trembled 
for his Lucy’s happiness. 

“ I’ll tell you, Gavin, what I will do. You shall 
perform a thing I ask of you, and then I will say 
^amen’ to Lucy’s ‘ yes.’ ” 

“ I will do anything within the power of man 
to do.” 

“ My request may seem eccentric and purposeless, 
but I have good reasons for making it. It is now 



THE KENNEDYS’ GOOD FORTUNE.— /See Page 196. 




‘‘/ Do}H Carer 


193 


the end of August, you shall go every night to your 
father’s house at ten o’clock, and sit in his chair until 
midnight strikes — every night, mind — and I will 
give you an answer at the New Year.” 

“ Your wish is a singular one, but I will fulfill it.” 

“You are to take no company — no stimulant — and 
no light of any kind ; and you are to keep your tryst 
in spite of wind and weather.” 

“ I will strictly fulfill your orders.” 

No one spoke more of the strange compact, but it 
was silently fulfilled to the letter. Only on Christ- 
mas Eve, the old man pressed his hand as he left, 
and said : “ Be content ; your trial is nearly over.” 

So Gavin went out of the cozy, lighted parlor into 
the dark, cold, lonely house with a happy heart. 
He had sat about an hour when he heard footsteps, 
and saw the glimmer of a light. The door opened 
and the minister and Lucy entered ; but it was Lucy 
that kissed him, and said : 

“ Come home, Gavin ! Come home. Papa says so, 
and I am yours, darling, forever from this hour.” 

“ Yes, Gavin,” said the doctor, as they talked 
together afterward, “ I thought to-night is Christ- 
mas Eve ; no better time to forgive and forget, to 
trust and love ; and when I asked Lucy, she said it 
was God put the thought into my heart, and so we 
both came for you.” 

“ And now, my dear second father, tell me why 
you put me through such an ordeal.” 

“ Because I wanted first that you should think well 
over your past, and I knew that the lonely walk in 
all weathers and the lonely house, so full of tender 


194 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


memories, was the best place for thought. Secondly^ 
I knew if you had the resolution and the love to keep 
a promise extending over four months, you might 
be trusted with a graver promise. And now I have 
a double reward for you. Here is the order for ten 
thousand pounds and interest for ten years. Your 
father left them with me for you. We both knew 
you would waste the first ten thousand pounds, and 
very likely, also, would wander into the ‘ very far 
countries,’ and feed upon husks before you would 
come home again ; but we also knew you would come, 
sooner or later, for you were well brought up in the 
way you should go ; and this was to be the portion 
of your second state, Gavin.” 

“ And Lucy, father V* 

“ Lucy gave herself to you, and I’m well enough 
content. I am proud of the way you kept your 
bargain, and everybody has the good word for you 
now, Gavin.” 

And I am glad enough of their good word and 
kind greetings, father. I’ll do all a man may do to 
deserve both.” 

That’s right, Gavin Irwin ! If a man ‘ doesn’t 
care ’ for the respect of his fellow-creatures, he will 
very soon lose respect for himself ; and when self- 
respect is once gone, the devil has a good lien on 
everything else.” 



The Kennedys’ Good Fortune. 


There have been rich Kennedys and poor Ken- 
nedys ever since the Kennedy clan first settled 
among the glens and straths of Dee. One of the 
rich ones — Mclvor Kennedy — founded in Marischal 
College, Aberdeen, four perpetual bursaries for poor 
lads of the Kennedy name. Thus, for more than 
two hundred years, this “good Mclvor" has been 
constantly educating poor Kennedys for the battle 
of life. 

At the beginning of this century there was an 
orphan lad, called Kenneth Kennedy, who was herd- 
ing sheep and studying hard for one of these bur- 
saries. He was fourteen years old when he won it. 
That was nothing remarkable ; the majority of the 
Marischal students are ready for their course at 
that age. It is no fancy college ; few of the boys 
spend more than their bursaries, and all of them 
expect to come out “ pith o’ men ’’ at eighteen. 

Kenneth’s bursary was worth twenty-five pounds 
a year, and he had eight pounds out of this to pay 
for fees. The balance (about $85 a year) would not 
seem to an American youth a possible living ; but 

[195] 


196 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


in Scotland a great deal can be done with oatmeal, 
and fish. At eighteen, Kenneth had won his honors 
and was eager for the fray of life, though sorry, too, 
to leave the grand old halls where he had been pre- 
pared for it. 

“You will have to depend on yourself, Kenneth, 
now,” said Dr. McAllister ; “ keep your 'eyes open^ and 
your ears open^ a^id be wide-awake to your finger ends. 
Come, little Gracie, and bid Kenneth ‘ good-by.’ 
She will be a grown lassie, I dare say, ere you see 
her again.” 

Gracie was only a little dame of six years old, but 
no one guessed how dearly Kenneth Kennedy loved 
the child. There was some slight tie of kinship 
between him and her father, and the doctor had 
been very kind to the orphan lad, and asked him 
every Sabbath-day to his house. In four years the 
baby and Kenneth had become fast friends, and to 
bid her farewell was the hardest trial that had ever 
come to him. 

But he was going to Glasgow to make his fortune, 
the beginning of it being a position as a traveling- 
salesman to the house of Scott and Laird, sewed 
muslin manufacturers. The parting advice of Doc- 
tor McAllister stuck like a burr to his memory ; if 
he forgot all else, he felt sure he would remember 
that, and he began to follow it from the very outset 
of his career. 

Nothing came of it for a long time. Wise actions 
do not always bear rapid fruit ; they often wait long 
for their opportunity. Kenneth traveled seven 
years for Scott & Laird, selling their goods in all 


The Kenriedys^ Good Fortune. 197 


the towns between Glasgow and Manchester. But 
upon the whole it was a prosperous seven years ; 
he formed habits of keen observation, and won 
slowly but surely the confidence of his employers. 
His salary had been gradually raised, and when he 
passed the Clydesdale Bank now, he looked at it with 
a great deal of regard, for he had five hundred pounds 
at interest there. 

Perhaps some young men will say five hundred 
pounds was not a great result for several years’ 
labor ; but nominal value is not always indicative of 
real value, and what that five hundred pounds might 
yet be worth not even Kenneth then knew. 

The next year it was necessary to send some one 
to London about an important sale, and Mr. Laird 
proposed Kenneth. 

“ He is a gude judge o’ men, as weel as patterns, 
and he hasna made but twa bad debts i’ sax years. 
I could ha’e dune little better mysel’.” 

“Yes, he’s a pawkie lad, and he kens baith when 
to hold his tongue an’ when to speak. We can do 
nane better than send Maister Kennedy.” 

So Kenneth went to London. It was a difficult 
piece of business, and was made more so by the 
hospitality of the person he was to do it with. 
Kenneth had to judge of the man’s solvency under 
very delusive aspects ; but his old habit of keeping 
his eyes and ears open not only served the firm well, 
but in this case laid the foundation of his own for- 
tune on a broader basis. 

He was walking one morning with his host in the 
splendid garden attached to his house, when he 


198 Mrs. Bari'S Short Stories, 


noticed a very beautiful vine. Its heart-shaped 
leaves, and pale golden cones were trembling to 
every breeze, and a peculiar balmy, bitter odor 
instantly attracted him. 

“ What is it ?” he eagerly asked. 

“ Oh, that is a hop-vine. My wife greatly admires 
them, and we usually grow a few as an ornament. 

‘ The Barley Bride,’ we call it down here.” 

Something about this vine strangely attracted 
Kenneth ; and at night he visited it again — it was 
all withered, and as black as if burned by fire. 

He could not avoid an exclamation of amaze- 
ment and sorrow. His host looked at it ruefully 
and shrugged his shoulders. 

“ The green-fly has been here,” he said ; “ if they 
choose to go eastward, they will sit down to a 
banquet which will cost our Kentishmen two mil- 
lion pounds.” 

Both passed on, and Kenneth’s entertainer was 
soon absorbed in a new plan he had for growing 
grapes ; but Kenneth’s mind had suddenly caught 
an idea so important to him that he wanted to be 
alone and think it out. 

He slept little all night, and by dawn of day was 
ready to start for Glasgow. The business for the 
firm had been completed, and it was naturally 
supposed that he wished to return northward at 
once. But he did not ; he wrote to Glasgow, saying 
that he wished to remain in London a couple of 
days on his own affairs, and enclosed a check for 
five hundred pounds, as he intended using five 
hundred poiinds of the moneys in his hand. 


The Kennedy s' Good Fort tine, 199 


These five hundred pounds he laid out, to the 
last shilling, in hops, and then anxiously waited 
the result. In thirty hours there began to be 
rumors of blight and destruction, and before two 
days were over he felt his venture secure. 

Scott & Laird were quite satisfied with his conduct 
of their business, and did him the honor to express 
some interest as to what investment could have 
seduced his five hundred pounds out of such safe- 
keeping as the Clydesdale bank. Mr. Laird was 
inclined to joke a little over it, and Mr. Scott gravely 
shook his head. 

But the thing was not named again, and the 
months passed quietly away. At New Year’s, Ken- 
neth was ready to explain his investment and show 
the results. His five hundred pounds had become 
fifteen hundred pounds, and these he wished to 
invest in the firm of Scott & Laird. Both gentle- 
men were well inclined to consider the proposal. 
The money was not much, but to give eyes so keen 
an interest in the concern might be a great deal ; 
and not very long afterward a “ Co.” was added to 
the name of the firm. 

Kenneth’s next great move was ten years after 
this event, and the house was now Scott & Kennedy. 
He still, however, traveled a great deal himself, and 
never failed to do so whenever there was likely to 
be a heavy or a long-continued business risk. He 
was sitting one night in the Skipton coach, and had 
fallen into that thoughtful state in which it is the 
pleasantest to close the eyes. 

There were two other passengers inside with him. 


200 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


but he judged them to be asleep. However, after a 
while they commenced a desultory conversation, 
which finally drifted into a very warm dispute about 
the value of shares on a certain canal route. 

I tell you,” said one, “ there is more gold in 
them than you can count, if they only had a differ- 
ent management. The traffic will be enormous, 
and the returns rapid.” 

The end of it was that Kenneth went back to the 
chief terminus of that canal route, cautiously made 
inquiries, and invested very largely in the stock. 
It seemed for some time as if he had made a great 
mistake. The shares went down and down and 
down. Instead of the looked-for dividend there 
was a “ call ” on the holders, and Mr. Scott was seri- 
ously provoked at his holding on to them. 

But he had watched the people who sold, and the 
people who bought, and a test trial to buy more 
shares revealed the fact that there were none in the 
market. Very soon he began to have letters offer- 
ing to buy his shares, and in all cases the buyers 
professed to have some peculiar reasons for wishing 
to buy, quite apart from the value of the shares. 

Kenneth refused all such offers promptly, and 
when the five or six holders found they had really 
got all it was possible to secure, the shares went up 
rapidly to par ; rose above it ; declared a handsome 
dividend ; and the canal was the best paying scheme 
of the day. 

Out of the first proceeds of this investment Ken- 
neth determined to buy an estate somewhere within 
sight of “bonnie Aberdeen.” It was his first holi 


The Kennedy s Good Fortune, 


201 


day in nearly eighteen years ; but it proved to be a 
very long one. He left Glasgow in the spring, and 
he did not return until the autumn, but he had been 
busy enough in the interval ; for he had wooed and 
married Gracie McAllister, and seen the foundations 
laid of that beautiful residence which to-day crowns 
one of the most picturesque summits of the banks 
of the Dee. 

Since then, the Kennedys, father and sons, have 
added acre to acre, and made their thousands, and 
tens of thousands. The canal shares have become 
vast railway interests, and a second Kenneth Ken- 
nedy has built a still more beautiful residence among 
the romantic dales of Glen Tanner. 

There are no extraordinary windfalls, and no 
lucky accidents in this true story of the founding of 
a great house. The capital used is within the con- 
trol of every intelligent young man — ‘‘ Keep your 
eyes and ears open, and be awake to your finger 
ends.” 


PAID IN HIS OWN COIN, 


Archy Galbraith sat in his office, docketing his 
last file of papers. It had been a persistently wet 
day, and through the muddy streets the miserable 
people, encumbered with umbrellas and overcoats 
plodded along in a kind of hopeless resignation. 

wish Mark Elliott would come,” he thought, 
as he arranged his desk for the morning’s work ; “ I 
wish Mark would come.” And with the wish Mark 
entered, his handsome person and impetuous man- 
ners forming the strongest contrast to his plain, calm, 
methodical friend. Yet the two loved each other 
sincerely and unselfishly. 

One glance into Mark’s face, however, told Archy 
that, in some way or other, there was to be a change 
in the evening’s programme, and before it could be 
announced, he said : 

“You have got a new sensation, I see. What is 
it ?” 

“ No, really. I have received orders to dine at 
home ; that is all. Aunt Margaret has company, 
and wants me to be entertaining ; some young lady 
from Maryland that she has been expecting for 
[202] 


Paid hi His Own Coin, 


203 


some time, and in whom she takes a great interest. 
The girl is pretty and rich, but I dare say I shall be 
in some danger ; but I am willing to take the risk.” 
And Mark, with a little affectation of dandyism, 
twirled his mustache, and straightened up his six 
feet of masculine beauty. 

“ Self-denying ! Why am I not invited, too, I 
wonder ?” 

“ The ways of women are past finding out. 
Auntie has some private reason. I think you ought 
to be more grateful for the ‘ breach than for the 
observance.' You know what a dinner in Twenty- 
eighth street is — no spices, no wines, and a deluge 
of coffee and sweetmeats — a regular woman’s 
dinner, without even the consolation of a smoke.” 

“ Pshaw ! You know you like a flirtation better 
than a dinner, Mark. More fool you ! However, in 
this case the woman may be worth it ; very few are, 
though. Call in the morning and report, will you ?” 

With a nod of acquiescence and adieu, Mark was 
gone. 

After all, his indifference was very much assumed, 
for the young lady from Maryland had long been 
an indefinite source of annoyance to him. He knew 
that he was expected to fall in love with her, and he 
knew better still that he had already anticipated 
that expectation in a different direction. All the 
way up Broadway, he was thinking of a pair of 
brown eyes, tender and bright, which had long held 
him a secret captive, and vowing that nothing nor 
anybody should make him false to the promise 
already given. 


204 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


“ Poor little Floy !’' he thought, benignly. It 
would break her heart, and I should hope I am not 
quite brute enough to do that.” 

His spirits rose as he neared home, and when his 
aunt spoke to him of Mary, and of her love for her, 
he asked : 

“ Is she a pretty girl. Aunt Margaret ?” 

“Always a man’s first question about a woman^ 
Well, I cannot tell you. I only saw her a moment 
or two as she came in. She preferred going to her 
room and resting before seeing any one.” 

“ Then she is clever. Resting, of course, meant 
dressing.” 

“ I do not see it in that light. Whom was there 
to dress for? Not you. I doubt if she knows of 
your existence.” 

“ Dear aunt, then let her remain in ignorance. I 
am willing.” 

“ What affectation, Mark 1” 

There was no time to say more. A servant 
opened the door, and quietly announced : 

“ Miss Peyton.” 

For a moment she stood at the open door, taking 
in with a rapid glance both the room and its 
occupants. 

“ Lovely as youthful poet’s dream. 

On summer eve, by haunted stream 

her dusky beauty and star-like eyes enhanced by 
every device of dress and ornament. It was no 
wonder that Mark at once succumbed to her spell. 


Paid 171 His Own Coin, 


205 


The evening was an enchanted one. Music and 
conversation added new charms to her eloquent 
face, and interpreted the soul sitting in her eyes. 

“ Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight ?” 

And Mark no sooner looked than he loved. He 
passed a very restless night, and came down to 
the breakfast-table in what his aunt called a “ touch- 
me-not ” temper — neither rude nor cross ; on the 
contrary, so excruciatingly polite, that she only felt 
oppressed and resentful. But when Mary entered, 
she brought with her a different atmosphere. Her 
smile cleared the room as a flash of electricity does 
the air. The radiance of her beauty was a real 
power against which there was no enchantment able 
to prevail. Mark would fain have remained, but 
had no excuse for doing so ; and he had the 
mortification to see that his departure scarcely 
affected Mary at all. 

On reaching Chambers street, he went at once to 
Archy’s office. For a few minutes the young men 
sat and smoked without conversation. Archy, with 
characteristic caution, waiting for Mark to introduce 
the subject which he knew he had come to discuss. 
As usual, the weather was the opening wedge. Mark 
declared it to be suicidal. 

“ I behaved shamefully this morning at breakfast, 
and it was all the fault of the weather; it is enough 
to make a man forswear his country.” 

“ Nonsense !” replied Archy. “ I’ve been under 
those ‘ eternal skies of blue,’ and a little of the gray 


2o6 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories 


is quite the thing, in my opinion. Will not this 
young lady at home make a little independent sun- 
shine for you ?” 

I am afraid of that kind of sunshine ; it is dan- 
gerous.” 

“ Not to you who are acclimated. But describe it • 
to me.” 

“ I can’t do it, Archy. She is just so bright that 
she dazzles you. Last night it was a soft, gray, sil- 
very light, mingled with heavenly blue. This 
morning it was ros}’, bright and sparkling. I can’t 
analyze. I only know it made the room cheerful, in 
spite of fog and rain.” 

“And your bad temper ?” 

“ Ah ! that had to depart, as all evil spirits do 
before the light.” 

“ I hope, Mark, you are not in love with this young 
lady.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because, Mark, it won’t do. There is little Flora 
Kelvin ; it would break her heart if you should 
desert her now.” 

“ There is no engagement between us.” 

“ But there ought to be.” 

“ That is hardly fair, Archy. You don’t know the 
facts.” 

“ I know you have taken considerable trouble for 
the past year to teach her to love you, and I do hope 
you are not going to make it an unfortunate lesson 
for her.” 

“ Of course, I shall do nothing wrong to Flora. 


Paid tn His Own Coin, 


207 


You are not sympathetic this morning, Archy, so I 
am going,” 

All through the long day, Mark fretted and 
wearied over his accustomed work, but “ time and 
the hour run through the longest day,” and six 
o’clock came, although Mark thought it never would. 
Then through the light and bustle of Broadway he 
made his way to the stately quiet of Twenty -eighth 
street. He made a hasty toilet, for dress was not to 
Mark a necessary foible, and went to the dining- 
parlor. 

Mary was sitting before the fire, thoughtfully 
rocking herself. An atmosphere of repose and calm 
pervaded her. To Mark, with his heart full of 
unrest and longing, going into her presence was 
like going into a sanctuary. 

Instead of going to Flora, Mark sent a hurried 
apology ; and in that selfish spirit which flavors even 
the best love of a man, stayed where inclination 
and not duty called him. And this was only the 
beginning of such selfish indulgence. Flora 
received more and more apologies and fewer calls, 
until even the apologies ceased to be necessary^ 
Mark did not ask himself whether Mary loved him ; 
he did not dare to think of his unmanly treatment 
of the dear little girl who had been so precious to 
him. He was absorbed in the delicious present, and 
blind to all future consequences. He went less and 
less, also, to Archy’s, for Archy’s evident disinclina- 
tion to discuss the subject nearest Mark’s heart irri- 
tated him like a reproach. 

One night, coming home fi'om business a little 


2o8 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


later than usual, he met Mary coming down stairs. 
She was dressed for an entertainment, in some misty 
transparent, white material, which seemed to float 
about her. Her neck and arms were uncovered, 
and were beautifully white, yet having just enough 
rose tint to suggest that perfect health which is the 
crown of beauty. Her magnificent hair rippled and 
waved across her forehead, and was kept in place by 
a wreath of bright green leaves and gleaming white 
mistletoe berries, and a little spray of the same 
fastened the rich lace which formed her berthe. 
Mark stood still to watch her approach. Indeed, he 
was so fascinated that he could not have moved, 
unless it had been to throw himself at her feet. As 
she passed, she put out her hand with a smile, and 
then all his stormy, passionate love found a moment- 
ary voice. 

“ Mary ! Mary !” he ejaculated, and put out his 
hand to detain her. But in her coldest tone, and 
stepping slightly backward, she answered : 

“ What did you say, sir ?” 

“ I said nothing, Miss Peyton. My heart spoke to 
you. I was foolish enough to imagine you would 
hear it.” 

Then turning fiercely round, he shut himself in his 
own room in a storm of love and rage. His suffer- 
ings were so keen that he actually remembered 
“poor little Flo}’’,” and half resolved to return to his 
allegiance and forget the tantalizing woman who 
had allured him for the last few weeks from lover 
and friend and business. But love only mocked at 
such resolves ; nothing would memory or even 


Paid ni His Own Coin. 


209 


reason reproduce but the one bewitching image, in 
its floating white drapery, looking down on him 
from the dim, wide staircase. 

The next morning he was so disturbed, that he 
determined to go and talk the whole affair over with 
Archy, and if his advice was practicable — that is, 
agreeable — to take it. He was amazed, when Archy 
said : 

Flora Kelvin is engaged to a handsome young 
cavalry officer ; he was quite splendid in his uniform, 
I assure you. I understood it was an old attachment. 
She is not to be married until next month, as Captain 
Home is obliged to return to duty at present.” 

“ Ah ! I’m glad of that. I shall go to see Flora 
to-night, and tell the little lady what I think of her.” 

Then he opened his heart about his other trouble 
and Archy listened very patiently while he described 
the scene of the previous night. He could offer him 
no consolation, however, except the assurance of 
Shakespeare, that — 

“ A woman often scorns what be.st contents her.” 

It would certainly have been both the wisest 
and the kindest course for Mark to have been grate- 
ful for the oblivion granted by the Kelvins, and 
quietly accept the same ; but this was utterly repug- 
nant to the young man’s feelings and pride. To be 
dropped, without regret and without reproach, 
wounded both his self-esteem and his affection. He 
felt nearer in love with Flora than he had been for 
many weeks, and a sense of wrong and injustice 


210 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


which, under the circumstances, was ridiculous, 
haunted him, blending irresistibly with the miser- 
able hope that Flora was as unhappy as himself. 
That night found him waiting again in the little 
drawing-room where he had so often waited for her. 
But she was longer in coming this time, and when 
she did come it was hard to believe that it was the 
same Flora. The little timid, shrinking girl who 
had been wont to nestle to his side and droop her 
large, brown eyes beneath his ardent gaze, met him 
to-night with a sang-froid and a polite indifference 
infinitely more galling than reproach. She drew 
her chair under the gaslight, and sat and crocheted 
with such cold serenity, that all the eloquence in his 
heart was frozen on his lips. 

At length a little clock on the mantel chimed the 
well-known hour for tea, and Flora, in a tone which 
perfectly ignored the psat, asked him to come into 
the parlor and take a cup. As she made the request, 
she moved toward the door, but Mark reached it 
first, and standing so as to intercept her exit, said : 

“ Look up at me once more. Flora, and let us speak 
honestly together. You know you love me^ and yet 
you are going to marry that Captain Home.” 

“ I do not love you ^ Mark Elliott,” she replied, raising 
her large dark eyes, and looking him steadily in the 
face. 

Since when have you ceased to do so. Flora ?” 

“ Since I ceased to know you worthy of my love, 
Mark. If you will be selfish and rude, and compel 
me to speak, it is best for you then to hear the trqth. 
I did love you ; loved you in spite of your many 


Paid in His Own Coin. 


21 I 


faults, and in spite of my friends’ advice and of my 
mother’s entreaties. But I do not love you now. If 
you taught me how to love, you taught me, too— O 
Mark ! how shall I say the word ? — to despise you ; 
to find my idol clay was a miserable lesson. But I 
am not one of those who, after such a discovery, can 
still offer up, with tears and regrets, so costly a 
sacrifice as my own youth and hopes, and, with 
them, those of a mother equally precious to me. 
When you were fallen prostrate, I banished you 
from my heart forever.” 

You soon found a new idol,” said Mark, with a 
bitter sneer on his face. 

Mr. Elliott might have spared the sneer. Satan 
rebuking sin is not a very consistent spectacle.” 

“ And are we to part thus. Flora ?” 

“We ought never to meet again. Why did you 
come ? I will tell you why,” she said, her eyes 
blazing with suppressed anger. “ You came hoping 
that you would be able to make me suffer a miser- 
able regret, to insult me with apologies which are in 
themselves insults. Do you not understand, sir, 
that there are wrongs a woman never has a memory 
tender enough to forgive ? Allow me to pass, Mr. 
Elliott.” 

“ No, hear me. Flora. I cannot part with you in 
anger. Is there no thought of the past sufficiently 
powerful to compel one kind word before I go ?” 
And there were tears in his eyes and passionate 
entreaty in his voice. 

“No, not in all the past, Mark. Notone. But 
there is much in the vast, untried future. I would 


2 12 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


not dare to carry into my new life any bitter thoughts 
or angry feelings ; for this reason, and because I 
pray to be forgiven ‘ as I forgive,’ we must part 
friends.” And she put both her little hands into 
his, and with a sad look passed quickly out of the 
room. 

He had no right, he had no power to stay her. 
To him she must be henceforth only a memory and 
a name. He hardly knew yet whether he was glad 
or sorry. He felt only blind and stunned and angry. 
He found his way to the hall-door, and let himself 
out. As he did so he remembered how often Flora 
had stood there with him, loth to say “ Good night.” 
How often under the summer stars and the winter 
moonlight he had drawn her little hood and cloak 
about her, and coaxed her to walk with him round and 
round the silent square. He put these and a host of 
such memories away with a resolute will. He was 
intensely mortified, too. Neither Mary Peyton last 
night, nor Flora Kelvin to-night, had shown a pro- 
per appreciation of his devotion. Just then Mark 
Elliott was not inclined to appraise women gener- 
ally, or those ladies particularly, very highly. 
Nevertheless there is always some little bit of com- 
fort in every trial, if it is only looked for, and Mark 
soon began to manufacture his, not finding it in 
suitable phase. “ After all. Flora was just a little 
passeer And that kind of strong-minded love which 
only gave as it received, and played a fellow back 
his own card so promptly was not his beau-ideal of 
womanly tenderness ; besides, she did not love him. 
And with a shrug and a sneer he remembered that 


Paid in His Own Coin. 


213 


old English love-song which is at once so sublimely 
selfish and so charmingly natural : 

** If she be not fair for me, 

What care I how fair she be 

When he reached home, there was a sound of 
mirth and music strangely at variance with his 
feelings. Mary was in one of her most radiant 
moods, and seemed to have quite forgotten the little 
disagreement of yesterday. She asked him to sing 
with her, confided to him her private opinions of 
the company present, and, in short, took him into 
the most flattering degree of intimacy. 

For the next two or three weeks all went prosper- 
ously. Aunt Margaret was happy with hope. 
Mark’s hope was almost confidence. Mary was 
bewitchingly coy and tender, and over the whole 
house was a happy expectancy which almost intoxi- 
cated the happy lover. Day after day, Mark had 
resolved to put his fate to the touch, “ and win or 
lose it all but still he hesitated, hoping by so doing 
to make it a blest certainty. He could not bear to 
renew the mortification of a previous evening. 

A night or two before Flora’s marriage, Archy 
came home with Mark to dinner, and the subject 
was brought incidentally under discussion. 

“ It is strange you have no invitation, Mark,” said 
Mrs. Elliott. “ I thought you were rather intimate 
there.” 

“ Not so much,” answered Mark, dropping his 
eyes, and becoming suddenly embarrassed as he 


2T4 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


saw Mary flash a rapid, inquiring look at him. 
“ Miss Kelvin was a nice little girl and a splendid 
partner for a dance.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Elliott, triumphantly, I am 
glad to hear you say that, Mark. I have been much 
annoyed with reports and condolences intimating 
that the young lady had treated you very badly ; in 
fact, jilted you.” 

“ Really, aunt, I do not see how a man can be 
jilted when he has never been accepted ; nor how 
he can be accepted when he has never proposed.” 

A grave look on Archy’s face and one quite 
undefinable on Mary’s were the only answer to this 
remark ; and, after an uncomfortable silence, the 
subject was allowed to drop. 

A few evenings after, the opportunity Mark had 
been eagerly looking for arrived. His aunt left 
the dinner-table early, to have an interview with 
her lawyer in the library, and Mary and Mark were 
left alone. When coffee came, she took her favorite 
rocking-chair before the fire, and sat gazing into 
the cup as if she would read her fortune there. 
Thus sitting, she was very lovely, the luminous 
blaze making all sorts of glancing lights in her 
silken robe, gleaming bands of gold whitening her 
arms and throat, and rose-tinted ribbons brighten- 
ing the darker splendor of her dress. 

Mark stood gazing at her until her beauty inspired 
him with a desperate courage. Then he told her 
how precious she was in his eyes — how dear to his 
heart. Love taught him a new language, and he 
became really eloquent as he pleaded his own cause 


Paid in His Own Com, 


215 


But on Mary’s face was only an incredulous smile, 
which gradually changed into a look of sorrow and 
regret. 

“ Have you nothing’to say to me, Miss Peyton — 
not one word of hope ?” 

“ You will hardly expect it, Mr. Elliott, when I 
tell you that Flora Kelvin and I have long been the 
dearest and closest of friends. I knew you by her 
letters — so fond and so enthusiastic regarding you — 
long before I saw you ; and I accepted your aunt’s 
invitation partly in the hope of being the means of 
introducing Flora to her, and assisting a happy 
denouement of her love to you. Since then, I have 
been the confidant of all her grief and disappointment. 
I heard you degrade the woman who ought to have 
been your wife into ‘ a nice little girl — a very pleas- 
ant partner for a dance !’ And after all this, Mr. 
Elliott, can you hope for a moment that I am desir- 
ous of occupying a similar position ? I am very 
sorry for you ; but all things find their equivalents 
in this world, and you are only paid in your own coin.” 

Mark is still unmarried, and declares he will 
always remain so. I think it very likely ; for of 
just such material as this are old bachelors com- 
posed. 



ROY OF AIRLIE. 


“Janet, may I come beside you? I am tired of 
reading.” 

“ ’Deed, Laird, ye may. Nae wonder you are tired 
o’ reading thae daft-like heathen books. I am busy 
enough wi’ the haver bread -making, but you’re aye 
welcome in hall or kitchen, to Janet.” 

Haver bread-baking is one of the hardest duties 
of the Cumberland housewife, and Janet lifted a 
flushed face, and straightened herself with an air of 
relief, to give the laird his welcome. He was a 
handsome young fellow, not a year home from col- 
lege, and his own master. He still wore mourning 
for the old laird, but it became him well, as did also 
his merry way of throwing off his air of “ still 
delightful studies.” 

“ Don’t abuse my heathen books, Janet ; wonder- 
ful men wrote them, and they are full of grand 
thoughts.” 

“ Then what for didna they write them in decent 
English ? I’m aye doubtful o’ books in thae dead 
languages. When ony tongue has put off flesh and 
blood, it is too ghaist-like to meddle wi’, unless 
[216] 


Roy of Air lie. 


217 


mayhap, for the Black Art and Janet looked half 
doubting-ly at her young master. 

“Oh, my books are all right, Janet. The minis- 
ter borrowed some of them yesterday.” 

“ I dinna ken, sir. Whatna for do ye read some 
o’ them backward, then ? Didna I see him and you 
begin at the end o’ ane o’ them and read it back- 
ward 

“That was Hebrew, Janet.” 

“ O !” But the“ O !” was a very suspicious ejacu- 
lation, and Janet thumped her cake with great 
emphasis to a very peculiar shake of her head. 

Young Roy laughed, and continued his leisurely 
walk through the white-flagged house-place. It 
was a charming apartment, though only a flagged 
one, and especially so this morning. The sweet, 
savory smell of the fine oatmeal delicacy, the sight 
of the motherly Janet in her spotless cap and apron, 
the snowy, pipe-clayed floor, the shimmer of pew- 
ter and tins and brasses, ranged upon the deal 
shelves of the “dresser,” all made an idyllic picture, 
which not even Theocritus could match, and Roy 
felt it. 

“ Janet, you are half right ; your kitchen and your 
occupation and you yourself are a better piece of 
poetry than any I have read this morning.” 

“ There’s naught but what is sensible and world- 
like about Janet, Master Roy ; an’ naebody ever 
spoke o’ po’try an’ me in the same breath before ; ye 
maun talk your nonsense to sillier folk than Janet 
Armstrong, Laird.” 


2i8 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


“ There is lovely Alice Elderslie — is she not a 
poem, Janet 

“ ’Deed, she’s a vera guid bonnie lassie, an’ far too 
much respecktit to be making po’try about. Nae- 
body should say aught to Alice Elderslie but the 
honest truth.” 

Roy walked thoughtfully up and down, and Janet 
furtively watched him, as he went between her table 
and the heated marble slab where her cakes were 
baking. 

“ You are very fond of Alice, Janet.” 

“ There’s reason for a’ things. Master Roy, an’ I 
ha’e guid ones, mair than ane, for loving the house 
of Elderslie, root an’ branch.” 

“ When I was at college, Alice came every day 
here — Adam says so.” 

“ Adam Strong has mair tongue than guid sense ; 
but he spake the truth that time.” 

“ Why does she not come every day, now ?” 

“ Guid reasons. Master Roy ; your fayther — God 
rest him ! — an’ you are totally different pairsons. It 
would ill-sort Miss Elderslie to be coming every day 
to Airlie, an’ you sitting i’ your fayther’s chair. 
Dear me ! dear me ! I think I see the old laird an’ 
Miss Alice walking by his side.” And Janet 
stopped and looked thoughtfully through the lattice. 

“Janet, I am going over to Mr. Elderslie's. I 
want to ask his opinion about something.” 

“Ye needna ask Squire Elderslie’s opinion about 
anything but stanes an’ roots an’ sic havers. If it’s 
about gowd or land or business, you gang to Lawyer 


Roy of Air lie. 


219 


Bell, Master Roy — he comes of a wise generation, 
an' he’ll lead you nae foolish gaits.” 

Roy laughed and disappeared, and Janet went on 
with her work, muttering as she clapped the wafer- 
like cakes : 

Much o' the squire’s opinion he wanted ; he 
kens weel he’s awa’ to the hills this fine day with 
his bag an’ his hammer — it’s Miss Alice, of course. 
I wish she had a bit tocher. Airlie is worn out, 
half crops, an’ no’ a third o’ the wool we used to 
shear. Alice has naught ava but her peat lands an’ 
her sma’ house-farm ; beauty an’ birth havna»ony 
cash value nowadays — never had, as far as I ken. 
Alice and Airlie would be just naething added to 
naething.” 

In the meantime, Roy had found Alice, and asked 
her opinion about a great many questions. He 
found these kinds of consultations so charming that 
he continued them daily. He really hardly con- 
sidered the responsibility and danger of these 
pleasant meetings and rambles. Alice’s sweet, rose- 
like beauty, her guileless innocence and frank 
delight in his company had led him to respond in a 
manner that rather startled him when Janet took 
him plainly to task about it. 

“ You’ll ha’e spoke to the squire for Miss Alice, 
I suppose. Master Roy,” she said, bluntly, one 
morning. 

Why, what do you mean, Janet ?” 

“ I thought a gentleman aye asked the fayther 
before the daughter ; it’s an auld fashion, but a 
guid one, I’m thinking.” 


220 


Mrs, Barr's Short Stories, 


“ What made you think I had asked either ?” 

“ Because, to my ken, dishonor an’ your fayther’s 
blood are no kin to each ither.” 

“ Janet, do you know what you are saying ?” 

“ Finely, Master Roy ; an’ I ken what the country- 
side is saying, too ; an’ if the squire is sae wrapped 
up i’ his foolishness as to see naught an’ hear naught, 
I ken well nae honorable gentleman will take ony 
advantage o’ that.” 

“Janet, do you think it will be a good thing for 
me to maiT)’’ Alice Elderslie ?” 

“I dinna say it 'will be a guid thing — counting 
siller like, but I say it will be the right thing.” 

“ The ‘right thing ’ ought to be the same as the 
‘ good thing.’ ” 

“That is as ye read it. If ye have passed a 
promise, Airlie, be lord o’ your word an’ keep it.” 

Roy Airlie went out a very thoughtful man. He 
had not, indeed, in so many words, asked Alice to be 
his wife ; but in many ways of sweet persuasion he 
had asked her that question. He loved her, too, 
and he believed that she loved him ; but what of 
that ? Was marriage the only honorable close to 
such a sweet summer pastime ? To marry Alice 
was only to add one poor, impoverished estate to 
another ; and he had just begun to realize that 
poverty was a very uncomfortable drawback to pro- 
prietorship, and to listen to the proposals of Lawyer 
Bell for raising money to improve and drain his 
lands. Life seemed yet so rich in possibilities. 

Full of such thoughts, he rambled on. It was a 
cool, brisk morning in October, and several hunting 


Roy of Air lie. 


221 


parties crossed the moors at different points — the 
joyous view-hallo, the sound of the horns, and the 
music of the dogs, came noisily or faintly up the 
breeze. He thought of the pleasures of the chase, 
of owning fine hunters and dogs, of keeping open 
house, and being a member of the county hunt, of 
fine old Airlie Hall and its capabilities, and how 
twenty thousand pounds would make it the hand- 
somest and most productive estate in East Cum- 
berland. 

He hardly knew how time passed, but looking 
suddenly up, he saw a lady on horseback, standing 
about half a mile to his right, and waving her veil 
as if for help. He knew in a moment what for. She 
had lost her way and got into Scaffel Moss. A step 
or two on any side might engulf both the horse and 
rider. 

He galloped rapidly toward her as near as was 
safe, and then cautiously advancing, told her to dis- 
mount, and guided her on to firm ground. The 
horse, left to its own instinct, picked its way out 
with much cleaner feet than either Roy or the lady, 
rubbed up an acquaintance with Roy’s horse, and 
then patiently waited for its mistress. 

Roy did not wonder ; it seemed to him as if no 
more exquisite piece of womanhood had ever been 
formed. Great, black eyes moving lazily in a kind 
of soft, tender light. A rich, glowing complexion, 
delicate features, and red, pouting lips. She had 
pretty little womanish ways, and rode with a daring 
recklessness — a creature half faun and half centaur, 
with blood of fire. Roy was dazzled, enchanted, 


222 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


enthralled, and the more so when he knew that she 
was the only child of a rich Calcutta merchant. 

They were visiting at London Park, and she had 
got separated from her party in the ardor of the 
hunt, lost her way, wandered into danger, and into 
Roy’s horizon. She made sad commotion in that 
horizon during the next few weeks ; now splendidly 
gracious, now haughtily indifferent, now meeting 
Roy’s advances with more than equal passion, now 
treating him with a coldness that almost drove him 
wild. 

Her mother had been a Mahratta chieftainess, and 
she was going back, she said, with her father to 
Calcutta in a few weeks. Janet prayed for her 
departure. Her dress, manner, style of beauty, her 
very name, were an offense. 

“ Mahal^ indeed !” she said when told Mahal was 
her name. “ Such a heathenish name just fits her ; 
she’s more like a splendid leopard than a woman.” 

And just as a leopard might play with its victim she 
played with Roy ; now suffering him to escape her 
toils, now luring him back with some fresh witchery 
that he was powerless to resist. But, at length, one 
night she encouraged him to pour out his whole 
heart ; she suffered him to hold her childlike hands 
— to feel the perfume of her drooping curls — to 
touch her glowing cheeks. She dismissed him 
with a kiss that intoxicated him with joy, and the 
next morning left for Calcutta without one word of 
kindness or farewell. 

He did not know she had gone for twenty-four 
hours. The news smote him like a sword. He went 


Roy of A irlie. 


223 


back to Airlie House like a man stricken with death. 
The disappointment was the climax to six weeks of 
worry and anxiety ; typhoid fever was the most 
natural of results, and Roy went down to the very 
gates of the grave with it. It is said that most love 
affairs can be cured by a smart attack of fever ; we 
can only judge Roy’s by the results. 

Whatever thoughts occupied the long hours of his 
recovery, the first visit he made was to Alice 
Elderslie. He frankly confessed his infatuation for 
the splendid Mahal, and begged her, if she could 
trust an affection whose roots lay deeper than it, to 
forgive and accept him. 

But a woman’s instinct in such matters is very 
fine. Alice saw good reasons to distrust his cure. 
She was quite sure that Mahal yet had a very pow- 
erful influence over him. Perhaps she was right, 
for upon Alice’s refusal, Roy placed his estate in 
Lawyer Bell’s care, left the house with Janet, and 
suddenly disappeared. 

Of course, he went to Calcutta, and upon the 
principal that “ like cures like,” he could have done 
no wiser thing. He saw there a superfluity of 
beauties like the magnificent Mahal. Hundreds of 
women, with soft, black, lustrous eyes, and carna- 
tion cheeks, and forms of voluptuous loveliness. 
The semi-barbaric splendor of dress and jewels 
which had so dazzled him by its contrast with the 
simplicity of English costume, became a common 
and familiar sight. Mahal lost by the side of still 
lovelier half-breeds ; and as she had touched no 


224 


Mrs, Barr s Short Stories, 


moral or intellectual point of Roy’s character, she 
soon lost him altogether. 

There very soon came a time when he could have 
paid her back in her own coin ; but Roy came of 
a race of gentlemen, and Mahal’s weapons were 
not in his armory. 

From Calcutta he came to Australia, and there 
turned his knowledge of sheep-raising to very great 
advantage. He took a partner and renewed, in a 
kind of Arabian Nights fashion, his experience of 
sheep-shearing on the Cumberland Hills. He was 
among countrymen, was making money rapidly, 
and w'as not unhappy. He fully intended to remain 
in Australian sheep-walks until he had made suffi- 
cient to realize his dreams for Airlie House. 

But one day his partner went down to Sidney 
and returned with a sweet, fair young English girl 
who, trusting to his love, had come to the ends of 
the earth to marry him. She was not like Alice, 
only in kind, but somehow she brought Alice, and 
Alice’s sweet, tender, womanly love and loveliness 
so near to Roy that he could not bear his sepa- 
ration from her any longer. 

He had not a memory of Alice which did not link 
itself with purity, religion, love of home, and love of 
country. His wild infatuation for Mahal had not 
touched so holy a feeling, and absence had only fed 
and strengthened it. He found that he possessed 
about ten thousand pounds, and he gave up the 
chances of the next shearing without a care, and 
set his face England-ward. 

Janet was clapping her haver-bread one morning 










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Roy of Air lie. 


225 


in spring when Roy opened the door and suddenly 
stood before her. 

“ Guid sakes, Master Roy, is it you or your 
ghaist ?” 

It is I, Janet’ 

“ Then you’re vera welcome, an’ no’ before you’re 
needed. There’s auld Elderslie an’ Lawyer Bell 
gaun clean daft aboot ye — for me, I telt them you’d 
turn up again when ye get ret ready to.” 

“Janet, you are real glad to see me, you know 
you are. Why, there are tears in your eyes, 
woman !” 

“ Mair shame for ye to bring them there. Master 
Roy — maist breaking my heart these three years.” 

“ Janet, we will not part again, I hope. Where is 
Alice Elderslie ?” 

“ ’Deed, she was here a minute since ; she’ll ha’e 
gane to the garden belike.” 

Roy lost no time in going to look for her ; and 
Janet, watching him through the open lattice, 
nodded her head with great satisfaction at the sight 
of the young laird under the apple-blossoms, and 
sweet Alice Elderslie walking lovingly beside 
him. 

“ He ought to ha’e said the words he’s saying the 
now, three years ago,” murmured Janet, regretfully, 
“ but they’re better late than never.” 

“Janet, Janet, Alice has promised to be my 
wife !” 

“In time she comes whom God sends. Master 
Roy ; but whiles men are fain to kill themselves for 
the ither ane. Do ye ken what has come o’ your 


226 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


Mahal ? She ran awa’ with a clerk i’ her fayther’s 
employ, an’ they took sae much o’ the old man’s 
gowd wi’ them, that they maist ruined him. I hope 
we shall ne’er hear the end o’ that marriage ; it 
canna be a guid ane.” 

In the meantime, Janet had sent for Squire Elders- 
lie and Lawyer Bell, and Roy was eating dinner 
with Alice when the two gentlemen arrived. 

“ My letter, Airlie ! Did you get my letter } But 
that is impossible ; it only left ten days ago.” 

“ I got no letter from you. Bell.” 

“ Then you don’t know what Elderslie and I 
wrote to you about ?” 

As I got no letter — impossible I should.” 

“ Tell him, Elderslie.” 

He won’t believe me, Bell. My wisdom is all 
foolishness to him, and most other people ; but 
Lawyer Bell’s word is as good for cash as the Bank 
of England.” 

“ Then, Airlie, we wrote to tell you that Elderslie 
has found an immense bed of coal, half of it on his 
land and half on yours. It is so rich, that I am 
sure if you want to buy back the old earldom of 
Airlie, you may do it in half a score of years.” 

“ Let the earldom go. I have now Alice of Elders- 
lie — that is enough joy for any man to bear in one 
day. Come, now, and rejoice with us, and then 
to-morrow I will talk with you about seams and 
shares and profits.” 

“Janet,” said Roy, as he bade her good-night; 
“ Janet, I have won the best and loveliest wife in all 
the world.” 


Roy of Air lie. 


227 


“ And a weel-tochered one, too, Master Roy. I’m 
no saying that Miss Alice needed a fortune, but one 
does no harm.” 

“ And I am in the right road this time, Janet ?’* 

“ Weel, weel, the right road is aye, some gait or 
ither, a profitable road. A guid wife is from the 
Lord, an’ she’s aye kin to Good Fortune !” 



The Udaler's Daughter. 


Gray with the storms of centuries is the old Norse 
town of Kirkwall, the capital of a group of islands 
cut off from the rest of the world by the stormy 
Pent land Firth. 

The French War was going on, and the Orkneys 
were favorite objects of the French privateers, for 
the people were rich in gold, and very fond of rich 
clothing and valuable ornaments. So the English 
government kept a garrison in Kirkwall, and a man- 
of-war that hunted the seas around ; and what with 
the French prisoners and the Dutch skippers and 
the English soldiers and the native Orcadians, the 
streets were full of stir, and queer, interesting life. 

In those days, the greatest man around Kirkwall 
was Udaler, or Freeholder, Paul Thorso, forty years 
of age — kindly, but heart-full of his island preju- 
dices. One morning in October, A. D. 1805, he 
might have been seen coming down the main street, 
his gigantic form jogging along on a rough Shetland 
pony, his feet raking the ground, and his prehistoric 
hat tied on the back of his head. 

He stopped at the usual rendezvous — Peter Fae’s 
warehouse — and had a kindly word and a firm grip 
. [228] 



The Udalers Daughter, 


229 


for every one there, except a slim, dark, handsome 
Frenchman, who was leaning on a great cask of 
brandy, and chattering away in his imperfect Eng- 
lish in an amusing way. Paul Thorso did not like 
Frenchmen, hence he offered him no handshake, 
still he could not resist the fascination of the 
foreigner’s company. Besides, though a prisoner, 
was well understood that Monsieur Victor Loubarree 
was a gentleman and a great fayorite of the com- 
manding officer. Colonel Lucies. 

This morning , too, Paul was in unusually good 
spirits ; his son Hacon had just returned safely from 
a prosperous voyage to Iceland, and he intended 
giving a four days’ feast in consequence. He 
especially invited every one present except the 
Frenchman, and to him he said, frankly : 

Thou must excuse me, stranger, I do not wish 
thee to come.” 

“ Pardon, Monsieur Udaler, but I wish very much 
to come.” 

It was impossible to resist the good-natured tone 
and smile, and Monsieur Loubarree won his way, 
although the udaler grumbled to himself about it as 
he rode home. To tell the truth, he had a very 
good reason for disliking Monsieur Loubarree ’s visits. 
He feared that his daughter Elga like him too well ; 
but he resolved to make her brother Hacon a 
partner in his fears, and the girl would not dare, he 
thought, to oppose a twofold authority. 

When he got home he forgot his anxiety ; the 
house was . already full of young girls, who were 
sitting in groups and chatting and knitting, or 


230 


■ Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


busily braiding straw ; and Elga was passing from 
room to room looking after the spreading of the 
numerous tables and the preparation necessary for 
a large number of guests. Then, as the short day 
began to darken, the officers and other guests from 
Kirkwall arrived, and his duties as host made him 
forget his fatherly doubts. 

He had seen Elga at the head of one table, and 
had been watching her fair, stately figure in every 
dance, and not onc^ detected the obnoxious French- 
man near her. But toward the close of the evening, 
as the hilarity became more free, and the guests 
scattered through the hall and parlors, he missed 
both of them together. He found them in the front 
court, walking slowly up and down under the united 
glory of a great white moon and brilliant aurora 
that shot spears of rosy light from every quarter 
toward the zenith. 

As they turned and faced him, he was struck with 
the rarely diverse beauty of the two. Elga was fair 
and stately as a lily, and her bright, golden hair, 
falling over her white-down wrapping,’ had in that 
strange light a magical beauty. Victor’s bronze 
skin, black eyes, and lithe, graceful figure, he 
acknowledged to be equally fascinating, but it was 
a charm to which he was unused and distrusted. He 
was very angry, and the passionate, pleading attitude 
of the dark, uplifted face, and the tender drooping 
.of Elga toward it, was a wrong and an insult that he 
could hardly endure. 

But all his traditions of hospitality forbade him, 
while Victor was his guest, to interfere ; for this 


The Udalers D might er. 


231 


roug-h Northern gentleman had an instinct of chiv- 
alry for his guests almost oriental in its plenitude. 

But when the feast was over, and the guests sent 
away with a ^‘loving cup ’’and the “peace word,” 
he summoned Elga at once into his presence. She 
came in laughing merrily, her brother at her side. 
That was well, also ; it was time that Hacon knew 
the disgrace his sister contemplated for the ancient 
house of Thorso. 

But Hacon sympathized with his sister, who 
avowed her love for Victor. The old Norseman 
was kind but firm, and closed the interview by say- 
ing to Elga : 

“ There is only one way for thee and me — only 
one way ; see thou walk in it.” 

The long winter passed ; Elga made no appoint- 
ments to meet her lover, but still they did meet 
occasionally. The udaler was busy all winter with 
his duties as host to some one or other, but Elga 
readily obtained permission to join parties of young 
people who were going to some other udaler’s house 
for a week or two of merrymaking, and Victor 
nearly always dropped in among them the second 
day. There was -no understanding to this effect — 
Elga would have scorned an intrigue — and her 
intercourse with Victor was perfectly open and 
honest. If the udaler was ignorant of it, it was 
because he never asked and because all his friends 
naturally avoided a voluntary communication on 
what was known to be an unpleasant topic. 

If, indeed, Paul Thorso had made any inquiries, 
he might have heard other news which would have 


232 


Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


been nearly as displeasing to him. Hacon’s affec- 
tion for the “handsome foreigner,” had become a 
passion, and all Kirkwall knew that the young Norse 
gentleman spent most of his days in the garrison 
with the Frenchman. 

Elga watched this friendship with pleasure ; she 
knew Victor would hear everything about her from 
Hacon, and without many leading questions, the 
simple, good-hearted Hacon revealed all he knew 
about Victor. She was happy and hopeful, for she 
believed that the course of true love would run 
smoothly eventually if people had patience with the 
little bit of crooked way found in every road ; and 
she was not wrong. 

One morning in early spring, there was a very 
happy, good-natured crowd in Peter Fae’s shop. 
The sky was calm and blue ; the sea was calm and 
blue ; and the lark and thrush were thrilling the 
warm, delicious air. Suddenly, a little lad ran 
breathlessly into the shop, and, touching Hacon, 
said : 

“ I’m bidden to tell thee, Thorso, there’s an unco 
shoal o' ca’ing whales near the East Bay.” 

Of all information, this to the Orcadians is the 
most welcome and exciting. Men who had dozed all 
winter, and seemed hopelessly lazy and inert, 
leaped up like warriors ; the dull, heavy faces were 
aglow with fire ; and in a moment, one knew these 
were the genuine descendants of Thor and Odin 
and the old sea-kings. Armed with spears, pikes, 
bayonets, swords, knives, anything they could reach, 
they were soon surrounding the shoal with wild 


The Udaler^s Daup^hter, 

o 


233 


shouts, and driving them before them into the 
shallow bay. Many of the officers had joined the 
exciting chase, and Victor was among them. 

Aided by the advancing tide, in a couple of hours 
the whole shoal was floundering in shallow water, 
and a tremendous slaughter going on. The French- 
man was a transformed being ; the contest with 
these unwieldy brutes stimulated to a frenzy the 
natural love of fight in him, and many a Norse seal- 
hunter paused in wonder at the rapidity and 
dexerity of his blows. Hacon kept close beside 
him. Hour after hour the fight continued ; the 
sea was a crimson sea, and the shouts of the men in 
the water, and of the women and children on the 
shore, blended terribly with the shrill cries of the 
wounded whales and the strange snorting and hum- 
ming of the dying ones. 

The Udaler Thorso had been as active as any, but 
not too busy to notice how the fight had transformed 
the Frenchman, and how his enthusiasm had kindled 
Hacon to deeds that amazed his father. Paul did 
not know how to lie, even to his own heart, and he 
said, frankly : 

“ Yon man, be he French or the de’il, is worthy to" 
sit beside the best viking that ever sailed ; indeed 
he is.” 

Toward evening, when nearly two hundred 
whales had been slain, and the people were busy 
drawing them to land, there was a sudden shout of 
terror mingled with the name of Hacon Thorso. 
The udaler leaped into a boat, and four men pulled 
him rapidly toward the spot. Then it was dis- 


234 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


covered that Hacon had leaped out of the boat 
give the coup degrdce to a large whale, and had sunk, 
reappearing at some distance in an apparently 
drowning condition. Victor had immediately dived 
after him, and as the udaler approached, the French- 
man was striving against the tide and some under- 
current to keep H aeon’s head above water till help 
reached them. 

But the young men were exhausted with their 
eight hours’ fight, and were almost at the mercy of 
the waves when the udaler’s boat reached them. 
Hacon was insensible, and Victor became so 
immediately after being rescued. Thorso’s house 
was only a quarter of a mile’s pull, and thither the 
half-drowned men were carried. Hacon soon 
recovered, and in thirty hours was quite able to go 
and help in the cutting up and the division of the 
spoils. Victor remained many days upon the great 
lounge, bedded deep with seal-skins ; but he was 
quite contented there ; from it he could watch Elga 
in all her lovely household ways. 

The udaler, with his great heart on fire with grati- 
tude, acknowledged, as he watched the handsome 
face, its strange charm ; and he was anxious also to 
acknowledge the great debt that he owed the savior 
of the last descendant of the Thorsos. Victor 
might have asked half his estate and got it, but he 
asked far more ; he asked the hand of , the daughter 
for the life of the son, and he placed his case so 
plausibly that Paul was half convinced of its justice, 
and sorely beset to know how to grant something 
equivalent. 


235 


The Udaler^s Daughter. 


He began first to demur, on the ground of their 
unequal birth. “ Elga was of the noblest blood, the 
last daughter of a long line of Norse heroes." The 
Frenchman claimed a still higher nobility, and 
declaring that the marriage would make Elga a 
countess of the French empire, referred the udaler 
to Colonel Lucies. That gentleman confirmed 
Victor's statement, adding the significant fact that 
Loubarree had been free to return to France for 
many months, and had endured the rigors of an 
Orcadian winter for the sole pleasure of being near 
Elga Thorso. 

Colonel Lucies spoke warmly in favor of his friend; 
to tell the truth, he was amazed at Victor's admira- 
tion for a style of beauty, which, however dazzling 
to the dark Provengal, was not so remarkable to an 
Englishman accustomed to every shade of blonde 
loveliness. Neither could he understand the family 
pride of Thorso ; he certainly thought a French 
count a splendid match for an Orkney udaler 's 
daughter. Hacon also warmly supported Victor's 
wishes, and before summer was over Elga's calm 
patience and cheerful obedience had their full 
reward. In the famous old cathedral of St. Magnus 
Elga Thorso was married, amid a goodly company 
of Kirkwall magnates to Victor, Count of Lou- 
barred, in Provence, France. 

The udaler gave her a portion of ;^i 0,000, but it 
was remarked that she left it in Kirkwall Bank. 
Indeed, Elga had queer little prejudices, in spite of 
her virtue and good sense, and she said to Hacon : 

It is Orkney gold ; there is no call to carry it into 


236 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


an enemy’s camp.” Whereat the infatuated hus- 
band only smiled and answered that “ madame, the 
countess, must always do what pleased her best.” 

So Elga went from ice-bound Orkney to grape- 
garlanded Provence, and her beauty there was 
a marvel, and Victor’s admiration for his north- 
ern goddess increased yearly. She bore him two 
sons and two daughters. The boys inherited her 
beauty, and one of them her race’s passion for the sea, 
but both died young — one fighting in Algeria, the 
other in the stormy Bay of Biscay. One daughter 
married a Provengal noble, the other married an 
English gentleman called Martin Creifell, who lived 
on the coast of Cumberland. With Mary Creffell 
(the only child of this couple) I went to school 
through many pleasant days. 

It was in the year 1846 that Mary told me a young 
Orkney gentleman, a connection of her mother’s 
family, was coming to see them. He was a fine 
young fellow called Biron Velzain, and he staid so 
long in the old Cumberland mansion that I was not 
at all surprised to hear of their engagement. It gave 
universal satisfaction, and to no one so much as to 
Grandmamma Elga, Countess of Loubarree, who 
determined, though in her sixtieth year, to visit once 
more her daughter and her native land. 

Biron and Mary were married in her presence, 
and after the ceremony she gave Mary as a wedding 
gift ;^io,ooo and its interest, which had been lying 
over forty years in Kirkwall Bank. 

It is Orkney gold, my dear,” she said, “ and you 


The Udaler's Dmighter, 


237 


are going back to spend it in Orkney ; that is right, 
you know.” 

Then she began talking with such enthusiasm of 
the land of her birth and her youth, that Biron 
impulsively said : 

“ Mamma, why not go back with us for a little 
visit ? Thy good father still lives, hale and happy ; 
and Hacon’s children and grandchildren will rejoice 
to see thee.” 

The idea pleased her and grew rapidly. A 
steamer was chartered at Whitehaven, and after a 
pleasant sail old Paul Thorso welcomed on Kirkwall 
pier his daughter Elga and his son-in-law Victor, his 
granddaughters, the Marchioness of Chelong and 
and Mrs. Creffel, and his great-granddaughter and 
nephew, Mr. and Mrs. Biron Velzain. 

The old men of these islands have a green old age, 
and Paul had preserved, though eighty years old, a 
large measure of all his faculties. No one enjoyed 
this six weeks’ reunion more than he did. It was 
the Indian summer of his life, and after it was over 
he seemed satisfied with earth. At any rate, with- 
out suffering and without decay, he very soon after- 
ward attained to look upon the beginning of eternal 
peace. 


i 

i 


I 



My godfathers and my godmothers in my baptism 
called me ‘‘ Olive,” and they lived to be heartily 
ashamed of themselves for it, for never was there a 
child with a more mistaken name. A belligerent 
state was my normal condition. I do not remember 
my nurses, but I have grace enough to pity them. 
The mildest of my teachers considered me “unruly,” 
and you can ask Geoffrey what he thought of me a 
year ago. Now it is different. I have , found my 
master, and I believe I rather like it. This is how 
it came about ; 

Geoffrey had asked me three times to marry him, 
and three times I had said “ No,” in the most decided 
manner. But that never made the least difference 
to him. He only laughed, and said I would know 
my own mind better next time. 

“ I suppose,” I said, “ you mean to ask me once a 
quarter ?” 

“ Is that enough ?” 

“ Too often, a great deal, sir.” 

“ Well, then we will say once in six months. Miss 
Olive.” 

[238] 



How I Said “ Yesi* 


239 


And then he walked smilingly away, and began 
some nonsensical talk with father about Doctor 
Koch and his bewildering theories. 

This last asking was just at the beginning of 
warm weather, and father, who thought Geoffrey’s 
opinion infallible, asked him where he would advise 
us to go for the summer. 

I had made up my mind to go to Long Branch, 
and I said so, very distinctly ; but Geoffrey proposed 
some out-of-the-way place in the Virginia moun- 
tains. Then he painted it in such glowing colors 
that nothing would satisfy father but a personal 
investigation. It was all Geoffrey’s doing, and I 
told him so at the railway station. 

“ It is your doing, sir,” I said, “ and I shall 
remember you for it.” 

“ Thanks, Olive,” he replied ; “ there is nothing I 
fear but forgetfulness.” 

I wanted to speak unmistakably to him, but the 
train moved, and I felt that it would be only waste 
material. 

At the end of the second day we got to our desti- 
nation. It was a pretty place ; I must acknowledge 
that. Nature had done all she could for it, but art 
and civilization had passed it by. The men were 
simply “ frights,” and the women were — well, none 
too good for the men. The houses were log-cabins, 
through which daylight peeped and the wind blew 
as it listed. But there was, of course, a big white 
hotel — there always is. I have no doubt if we had 
gone to Stanley Falls or Guthrie we should have 
found a hotel and a proprietor— the institution is 


240 


Mrs. Barr s Short Stories. 


ubiquitary. We procured rooms, and my trunks 
were, with some difficulty, got up the hill and the 
flight of wooden steps into the hall. 

“ I supppse,’' I said, with a resigned look at father, 

there is no use in taking them up-stairs. I can 
have no use for my dresses here ?” 

“ As you like, Olive,” he replied, in one of his 
meek and mild ways ; “ as you like, dear ; that gray 
thing you have on looks pretty well, and it does not 
show the dirt.” 

After this remark, of course, I had every trunk, 
bonnet-box and satchel taken up-stairs ; and the 
noise and confusion, and even the occasional bad 
word their size and weight called forth, were quite 
grateful to me. 

“ It is not my fault,” I explained. “ If people will 
build stairs like corkscrews, I am not responsible.” 

In this amiable mood we took possession, and I 
think if Geoffrey had known what I was thinking 
about it, as I did up my hair and put on my white 
evening dress, he would have lost a trifle of his self- 
complacency — that is, if men ever do make a loss of 
that kind. The first thing that pleased me was the 
supper. It really was good, particularly the berries 
and cream, which are a specialty with me. 

*‘But, sir,” I inquired, “are there any Christians 
here besides ourselves ?” 

“ It is to be hoped so, Olive. I saw a little church 
in the valley.” 

“ Pshaw, father ! I did not mean church Chris- 
tians ; I mean society Christians,” 


How I Said “ Yes, 


241 


“ Ah, they are different, are they ? Well, what do 
you think of Augusta Pennington for a Christian T 

‘‘ Augusta Pennington ! Is she here ?” I asked 
amazed. 

“ No, she is not, but her brother lives within two 
miles, and he has a daughter about the same age as 
yourself. Mrs. Pennington wrote them we should 
be here to-day ; they will doubtless call in the 
morning.” 

Well, I did not care if they did. The dresses in 
my trunks were sufficient to inspire any woman with 
comfortable assurance. The next morning I made 
a beautiful toilet, but neither Mr. nor Miss Lacelles 
called. Just after supper I heard a little stir and 
bustle on the stairs, a rippling laugh, the rustle of 
silken robes, and, leaning on her father’s arm. Miss 
Lacelles entered. She was beautiful ; I saw that at 
a glance ; tall and pale and lady-like, reminding 
you of a fair white lily. We soon struck up a friend- 
ship — a girls’ friendship, I mean. Some one has 
said that there is no friendship between the sexes, 
and some one is mistaken, I think, for the world 
holds no safer friend for a woman than an honorable 
man. A woman’s friendship is very likely to be the 
result of convenience, contiguity, or of being, as my 
father rather sneeringly remarked, “ the only 
Christians within hail of each other.” Mary showed 
me all her dresses and told me her secrets, and I 
returned the compliment, mindful of Burns’s advice 
to still “ keep something to myseV I wadna tell to ony.” 

Life settled down into an unexciting but endur- 
able routine. Mary and I visited each other and 


242 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


arranged our next winter’s campaign, for I had 
invited her to pass the cold weather with me in 
New York. One day, in the middle of one of these 
pleasant chats, a servant came in and handed me a 
card. The name on it roused at once all the 
antagonism in my nature. It was — 


GEOFFREY GARDINER. 


Now it so happened that the existence of this 
gentleman was the one thing I had kept back in my 
confidences with Mary. So I had now to explain 
who and what he was. I wanted her to come into 
the parlor with me; but no, she would go home 
first and dress ; but she promised to be back to 
tea. 

I disliked Geoffrey, yet I was glad to see him. My 
mental faculties were rusting for want of attrition. 
Father would not quarrel with me, and Mary was 
my only face card. I could not throw her away. 
Besides, I rather liked to see his great, handsome 
figure in the room. He was so full of life that he 
seemed to vitalize even the chairs and stools ; they 
tumbled about and got out of the way in the 
strangest manner. I told him about Mary Lacelles, 
and warned him that he would lose his heart. He 
gravely told me he had none to lose. 

Imagine six feet two inches of manhood without 
a heart. 


How I Said “ Yesi' 


243 


We waited tea for Mary, but she did not come till 
quite dark, and we had begun tea. She said she 
had been detained by company, but I knew better 
than that. She was dressed with reference to 
candle-light effect, and would not lose its influence 
on her first appearance. I never saw her look so 
lovely ; her rose-colored dress, with its broad shim- 
mering bands of white silk, wonderfully enhanced 
her charms. Geoffrey looked delighted, and she 
gave him the full benefit of both her upward and 
downward glances. 

When tea was over, I left the room a few minutes, 
and when I came back, found Geoffrey and Mary 
sitting opposite each other, with the chess-board 
between them as an excuse for flirtation. The move 
had been so rapid that I was astonished, and a little 
angry, too ; and father did not improve matters by 
whispering, as I passed his chair : 

Checkmated, Olive !” 

It was not a pleasant evening to me, and it was 
the beginning of many unpleasant ones. 

How it came let doctors tell,” but I began to 
like Geoffrey just as soon as he began to like Mary. 
I called up pride to the rescue, but it did not help 
me much, and I suffered a good deal in watching 
Geoffrey’s attentions to Mary, and listening to her 
prattle about him. I thought her supremely silly 
and I told her so. She was astonished at my petu- 
lance, but I don’t think she suspected the truth. 
Only father did that, and he looked so, “ Serve you 
right, miss,” that I longed for him to be a woman 
for an hour or so, that I might talk back to him. 


244 


Mrs. Barr^s Short Stories. 


One day, after Geoffrey had been a month with 
with us, a riding party was proposed to the top of 
the mountain. Father and I, Geoffrey and Mary — 
that would be the order, of course ; and I was pre- 
pared for that ; but there is a last straw in every 
burden, and my last straw was this incident. They 
were mounted and waiting for me, when Mary 
dropped her glove. From my window I saw Geof- 
frey pick it up, put it on the hand laid so confidingly 
in his, and then kiss it. After that I was not going 
to ride for king nor kaiser. I sent a positive refusal 
to all entreaties, and as soon as they were out of 
sight indulged in a good, refreshing cry. I cried 
myself to sleep, and woke about dusk with a new- 
born purpose in my heart which comforted me won- 
derfully, the key-note of which was : “ She stoops 

to conquer.” Yet I did not dress again. I knew 
they were to take tea at Mr. Lacelles’s ; so I threw 
my dressing-gown around me, and taking a novel 
in my hand, I ordered a cup of strong tea and went 
into the sitting-room. As I walked in at one door, 
Geoffrey walked in at the other. 

I came to take you to Mr. Lacelles’s, Olive,” he 
said. 

“ How do you propose doing it, sir ? For unless 
you bind me hand and foot, and get a couple of 
darkies to tote me there, I really don’t think you 
will succeed.” 

“ I could carry you myself.” 

“ Could you ? I don’t think you would enjoy the 
journey,” 

“ Will you dare me to do it ?” 


How I Said ‘‘ Ves^ 


245 


“ Not to-night. I should like to insure my life 
first.” 

“ Olive, you have been crying.” 

“I have not, sir,” indignantly. “ And if I have 
what is that to you ?” reproachfully. 

“ A great deal. Oh, Olive, you teasing, provok- 
ing, bewitching little mortal ! How often must I 
tell you I love you ? How often must I ask you to 
marry me ?” 

“ It is not six months since the last time, 
Geoffrey.” 

“ I don’t care ; it seems like six years. And, oh, 
Olive, you know that you love me.” 

“ I do not.” 

“ You have loved me ever since you were eight 
years old.” 

“ I have not.” 

Now you must take me forever or leave me for- 
ever to-night. I have asked you three times 
before.” 

“ Four times, sir.” 

“Well, four times, then. Odd numbers are 
lucky ; here is the fifth time. You know what I 
want, Olive — your promise to be mine. Is it to be ? 
Now or never !” 

I suppose every one has a good angel. Mine must 
have been at its post just then, for a strange feeling 
of humility and gentleness came over me. I glanced 
up at the handsome face all aglow with love’s divine 
light ; at the eyes full of gracious entreaty ; at the 
arms half-stretched out to embrace me. Yet pride 
struggled hard with love. I stood up silent and 


246 Mrs, Barr's Short Stories, 


trembling, quite unable to acknowledge myself van- 
quished, until I saw him turn away grieved and sor- 
rowful. Then I said : 

“ Geoffrey, come back ; it is now'' 

That is the way I said “ Yes," and I have never 
been sorry for it. If I live to the age of Methuse- 
lah, I shall never be a meek woman ; but still I suit 
Geoffrey, and I take more kindly to his authority 
than ever I did to paternal rule. Father laughs 
with sly triumph at Geoffrey’s victory, and he sent 
me as a wedding present a handsome copy of “ The 
Taming of the Shrew." 



SMITTEN WITH REMORSE, 


“ I tell you * No/ sir ! The poor are bad in the 
main/’ Judge Jeifcott picked out another walnut 
and helped himself to a fresh glass of wine, with the 
air of a man who dismisses a disagreeable subject. 

“ In your capacity, judge, you see only the worst 
of them. This Ralph Hurst, for instance, whom 
you only know as — ” 

A thief and a would-be murderer.” 

“ Is nevertheless a most devoted husband and son 
and the soberest fisherman on the coast.” 

“ Parson, I am astonished at you ! Why, I have 
had four gamekeepers flogged in less than three 
years ; and I have hardly dared, for three times 
three, to call a feather or a foot of game on the 
Jeffcott estate my own. Transportation is too good 
for such rascals, and if I had the making of the laws 
I would — ” 

“ Don’t say it. Judge ; you know you would not. 
I acknowledge Ralph has given you great provoca- 
tion ; but what about Luke Dayton ? It is his first 
known offense, and he declares he never lifted a gun 
against a fellow-creature.” 


[247] 


248 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


“ And pray what does he call my hares and pheas- 
ants ? And what right have such men as he with 
guns at all ? And what do those great lazy hounds 
mean sleeping all day long under his kitchen 
settle ?” 

Luke has had a hard time this winter, Judge. 
His mother is blind and feeble, his wife and his child 
have known both cold and hunger.” 

Well, sir, you have done your duty now. We 
will consider the subject closed, if you please. Fill 
your glass.” 

No, thank you, Judge. Luke had some hopes, 
and I must now tell him that they are false. Besides, 
I must see Elizabeth, who is almost beside herself 
with grief and anger.” 

“ Anger .? Well, I like that. Why, I ought to 
have given him fourteen years, and I made it seven 
for her sake.” 

“ Seven years mean forever to Elizabeth Dayton. 
She will break her heart before they are over.” 

“ Pshaw ! She has too much sense to have so 
much sentiment. However, I am sorry enough for 
her ; and if you can help her, use my means freely ;” 
and the judge took out his purse and olfered the 
clergyman a sovereign for her. 

A piece of gold for a broken heart ! However^ 
her friend took it, and then went to seek her in the 
little seaside town. A dreary rain was dropping on 
the cottage, which had a lonely, sorrowful look. 
Something more than solitude brooded over it ; for 
sacred is the place, however humble, in which a 
mighty grief sits down. 


Smitten With Remorse, 


249 


Elizabeth read with love’s quick instinct the ver- 
dict in his hesitating step and silent face. She was 
walking rapidly up and down the earthen floor, but 
she stopped suddenly, and gave him one, searching, 
imploring look. He shook his head, and then put 
out his hand to take hers, but she flung it passion- 
ately away. 

“ Don’t speak !” she cried. “ I know all you are 
going to say about patience and submission and 
God’s will. I will never believe it, sir. I would not 
think so hard of my Maker. I know He is as angry 
as I am to-night. And if He can’t comfort me, it is 
far beyond your power. Oh, Luke ! Luke ! My 
husband ! My husband !” 

And she wrung her hands and swayed her body 
backward and forward in a very agony of uncontrol- 
lable grief. 

It was such sorrow as lifted her beyond the pas- 
tor’s understanding and beyond his office. She 
listened to no word he said, and when her child, a 
pretty girl three years old, began to cry in sym- 
pathy, she struck it angrily and bade it cease. 

All the long night the good clergyman thought of 
and prayed for this poor woman, and the next day 
he renewed his efforts for her husband’s pardon. 
But all failed, and in three weeks Luke Dayton 
sailed away in a convict ship. 

Punishment does not prevent crime ; the world 
was just as bad after the flood as before it, and 
Judge Jeffcott’s game was no safer after Ralph and 
Luke had been transported. This fact reconciled 
the] judge to what he had done, for while Elizabeth 


250 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


lay at death’s door with brain fever, he had felt 
something very near akin to remorse. 

But Elizabeth did not die, though she came back 
to life but the shadow of her former self. All her, 
fresh, sweet comeliness was gone ; she walked as if 
tired with a hard journey, and her eyes were the 
very homes of some dumb accusing sorrow. 

For a little while every one helped and pitied her 
but friendship is made for great sacrifices — chronic 
benefits kill it — and the poor woman found out this 
truth soon enough. 

Three years after Luke’s departure, a letter from 
him came to the clergyman who had stood his friend 
in all his disgrace and trouble. It was raining 
heavily at the time, but he hastened at once to 
Elizabeth’s cottage. She had not been seen there 
for several months ; so he sought her at her sister’s, 
who lived at a little fishing village three miles 
distant. 

He never regretted the journey. Elizabeth was 
very ill ; but when she saw the weary, wet messen- 
ger, with the letter in his hand, she turned her face 
to her pillow and wept such sweet, soft tears as she 
had not shed since her trouble touched her. 

It was not a letter of much hope or comfort, but 
little she minded that. 

“ For you see, sir,” she said, solemnly, “ I know 
Luke is dead, and all these things are nothing to 
him now. But I am very glad that you thought 
enough of a poor, broken-hearted woman to come 
three miles through the rain to comfort me. I feel 


Smitten With Remorse, 


251 


as if I knew better now what God’s pity for me 
must be like.” 

And for my part, I think it was the best sermon 
he ever preached. 

It might have been a year or more after Eliza- 
beth’s death, when, one winter evening. Judge 
Jeffcott’s housekeeper went into a small garden to 
bring in some fine linen and laces bleaching there. 
A little girl was just getting over the stone wall, 
with the bundle in her arms. Something in the 
wretched little face touched the woman’s heart, and 
she made no ^larm. 

“ Do you know that you are stealing, and that I 
can send you to prison ?” 

I am so hungry !” That was all the child said. 
Then putting out her arms in a blind, uncertain way 
she reeled and fell. 

The good woman put down the linen and lifted the 
child. She carried her into her own clean, white room 
and nursed her until she was strong and well. In 
the interval, she had discovered that her name was 
“ Lizzie,” and that she was the child of Luke and 
Elizabeth Dayton. Then some good angel put it 
into Harriet Mason’s heart to keep and train the 
child in the way she should go. 

‘Tf I tell the judge,” she argued, he will send her 
to some reformatory prison ; and if I turn her loose, 
she will soon be fit for nothing else. I will e’en try 
and make a good woman of her.” 

No particular effort was made to hide Lizzie. The 
master saw her weeding in the garden or busy about 
the house, and, perhaps, sometimes thought that 


252 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


Mrs. Mason had been fortunate in her little hand- 
maiden. 

It is true that Lizzie’s good qualities had needed 
patient cultivation. Sometime^ her protector had 
almost regretted the charge she had assumed ; some- 
times she had got weary of the girl's lying and pil- 
fering, and felt inclined to wonder if the poor were 
really ‘‘ sinners above all others." But the reward 
promised to those who do “not weary in well-doing" 
came. First, a compensating love sprang up 
between the old woman and the young one. Good 
actions brought what they always do — both thanks 
and usage ; and when Lizzie was sixteen there was 
no daintier cook and no neater housemaid in the 
parish. 

Soon after Mrs. Mason fell sick with typhoid fever, 
and before she was out of danger the judge took 
it. To the two invalids Lizzie was everything, and 
I think she fully repaid, during those hard three 
months, the kindness that had sheltered her. 

One evening, when the judge was beginning to 
notice with a child’s eagerness all the incidents of 
his daily life again, he asked Lizzie her name, and 
learning it, he continued the catechism until she 
wondered. After a short silence, during which she 
was busy drawing the curtains and lighting the 
lamps, he said, abruptly and yet sadly : 

“ Lizzie, do you know that it was I who sent your 
father over the sea ?" 

“Yes, sir." 

“ And what do you think of me ?" 

“ Nothing hard, now, sir. Perhaps I did once, but 


Smitte7i With Remorse. 


253 


Mrs. Mason has made me see that if you had not 
done it, both father and mother might have been 
alive, sinning, suffering and working hard in the 
village yet. Now they are happy in heaven, and I 
don’t think, sir, they bear you any ill feeling, and 
so I am sure I do not, sir. You have been very 
good to me.” 

“ I did not know you an hour ago, Lizzie, but I 
shall be none the worse to you for this talk.” 

If 1 were writing a romance, I should say that 
Judge Jeff CO tt, smitten with remorse, educated and 
adopted Lizzie. But I believe he never once 
thought of such a thing. He felt kindly toward 
her, and ordered Mrs. Mason to pay her for all her 
past services and give her good wages for the future. 
He prized her admirable cooking, and the light and 
comfort that followed her up and down the house, 
and this the more because he never recovered from 
his attack of fever, but gradually sank from the lean 
and slippered invalid into the slowly dying man. 

In a very few months afterward, there was a 
darkened chamber in the Jeffcott mansion, and 
within it the shadow of white death. 

A small cottage and about three hundred dollars 
a year were left to Lizzie, and the same to Mrs. 
Mason. The two women made their home together ; 
and for many years, Lizzie lived a life so full of 
sweet and helpfiil deeds that I have no hesitation in 
calling it a great life. 

After I came to America, I never supposed I 
should hear of her again ; but one day, in the log- 
cabin of a stock-raiser near San Antonio, I lifted a 


254 Mrs. Barr's Short Stories, 


newspaper, and saw her name. It was during the 
Crimean War, and she was among that noble army 
of women whose names the angels shall call out 
before assembled worlds, saying : “ Come up 

higher." 

Suppose that the good woman who found her 
stealing had treated her as a criminal^ instead of as a 
little child! Suppose she had made her amenable to 
the law of the country, instead of to that higher law 
of love ! Suppose she had sent her to prison, instead 
of giving her a home ! Let those who dare follow 
out this supposition. For me, I weep and wonder 
when I consider how many little children bearing 
in their arms divinest gifts fall and perish by the 
way, because there is no one to believe in them 
and no one to help them. 



IKE BRENNAN’S WATCH. 


“ If you think your cousin is a scoundrel, young 
man, why, say the word, if it’s necessary to say any- 
thing. It’s mean to shake a man’s good name away 
with a shake of your head — that’s what I think.” 

Ike Brennan pushed back his Panama, and looked 
with anything but approval at Lyman Sneed lean- 
ing, in spotless flannels, against the China tree. 

In spite of his dapper appearance he was not a 
pleasant young man to look at. He had that 
uncertain, nervous way, so irritating to the honest 
and purposeful, and it stood written on his face that 
he had not loved a living soul. No, not even the 
pretty Nona Duval, whom he quit Ike to go and 
meet. He thought he loved her, but no feeling that 
possessed him was a more thoroughly selflsh one. 

His cousin, Dick Burleson, loved Nona — that was 
quite sufficient to make Lyman Sneed sure that she 
was necessary to his happiness. So he went eagerly 
now to meet her. Ike watched him up the street, 
muttering : 

“ Of two evils, choose the least ; but I’ve allers 
noticed that women, of two men, choose the worst ; 

[255] 


256 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


wonder if little Nona’ll do that same thing ? Her 
father rode through many a darned fight by my 
side — calculate I’ll take sides here — yes, sir.” 

He rose slowly, lifted his rifle, and went trailing 
up the hot avenue. He was on the look-out for 
Dick, and very soon found him among a lot of rough 
teamsters who were loafing in one of the principal 
stores. Dick was reading to them a New York 
paper, and backing up his own side of some politi- 
cal question with a good deal of fervor. The men 
were pulling their beards and listening with that 
true Texas phlegm which might at any moment 
turn into ungovernable passion. 

Ike waited until the end of one of Dick’s flowing 
periods, and then said : 

“ Thar, Dick, that’ll do for the business of the 
t/'-nited States ; supposing you come now with me 
and look after your own a spell.” 

It was so unusual for Ike Brennan to meddle 
in any one’s affairs that Dick gave instant heed to 
his invitation ; and with a final broadside of splen- 
did adjectives for his own party, he joined Ike, and 
they sat down together in the first quiet, shady 
seat. 

“ Lyman Sneed is playing the mischief with your 
good name, Dick. It’s against my habit to look 
after anybody’s but my own ; but I’ve reasons con- 
trary this time.” 

“ Lyman Sneed ! He is, is he ?” And Dick 
instinctively put his hand on the leathern sheath 
that held his knife. 

No tools, Dick, of that kind. It’s me that’s 









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Ike Bi'eiina7i s Watch. 


257 


making this quarrel, you know, and I let nobody do 
my fighting.” 

“ What did he say ?” 

That is it ; he says nothing you can get hold of. 
Pities his uncle — pities Nona Duval — and is so sorry 
you will — ” 

“ What ?” 

“ He don’t say — shrugs his shoulders and shakes 
his head, and the shrug and shake stand for drink- 
ing, gambling, anything you like to make it.” 

I’ll tell Lyman Sneed — ” 

“ You’ll say neither good nor bad, Dick. Lyman 
is like a pine coal — if he don’t burn, he blackens. 
Only don’t throw your chances ay^ay for Lyman to 
pick up — that is just what he wants you to do ; give 
in a bit to the old man ; he thinks all creation of 
you, and if you won’t try to please him, why, Lyman 
will, that’s all.” 

“ I’m not going to take my politics and m)-" opin- 
ions from Uncle Jack Burleson, no, not for all his hog- 
wallow prairie, and his cattle and gold thrown in.” 

“ He is an old man, Dick. Life is a country Jack 
Burleson has gone pretty thoroughly over ; stands 
to reason he knows more’n you.” 

“ He contradicts me half the time for the very 
sake of . a fight. He does not go into court now, 
and he hasn’t any lawyers or juries to bully. But 
he won’t make Dick Burleson say black is white to 
please him ; you bet he won’t.” 

Dick, you are right ; darned if you aren’t ! But 
old Jack is wise and good, and knows a sight more’n 
is writ in books. Say ‘ yes ’ when you can.” 


258 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


Sure.” 

“ And don’t you meddle in my fights, Dick. If 
Lyman Sneed needs a hiding, I know just how 
much will be good for him.” 

Dick saw the conversation was over, and, looking 
at his watch, saw, also, that he was behind office 
hours. As it happened, a number of trifles had 
already irritated the old lawyer, and Lyman’s lifted 
eyebrows and ostentatious diligence irritated Dick. 
He flung his books upon his desk, dashed his hat in 
a corner, and lifted his feet to a comfortable alti- 
tude. His big boots and loose flannel hunting 
shirt gave his uncle great offence, and he said so. 

Dick replied that “ he had been talking with the 
Lavacca teamsters, and had forgot to dress.” 

“ Lavacca teamsters, indeed ! I don’t see what 
on earth makes you run after every drove that 
comes to town.” 

I was getting their votes for my side, uncle, and 
making friends against the day I want their votes 
for myself.” 

A flash of keen pleasure shot into the old man’s 
eyes, but he was far too full of fight to abandon the 
dispute. He first attacked Dick’s politics, then his 
personal appearance and abilities, without being 
conscious how provoking he was. 

One bitter word followed another till all three 
men were on their feet, and Lyman, with a little 
scream, had rushed between his uncle and his cousin. 
Dick laughed uproariously at the intervention, and 
kicking it out of his way, said : 

“ Good-bye, uncle ; I’m not going to quarrel any 


Ike- Brennan's Watch, 


259 


more with you. The world is big enough, I reckon, 
for both of us — and for our opinions.” 

He went straight to Ike, who was sitting just 
where he left him, and said : 

“ Ike, tell uncle, in a couple of days, that I have 
gone West, and that there’s no ill blood between us ; 
and, Ike, watch Nona for me until I can come after 
her.” 

“ You are bound to go, then ?” 

“ Yes ; the old man is fire and I am gunpowder. 
We are better apart — that is all.” 

“ Go ’long, then ; I’ll watch what you leave be- 
hind.” 

Dick felt unhappy enough at leaving Nona. She 
lived alone with her father, and he was not always 
the best of protectors. Dick spent the rest of the 
day by her side, and left town in the cool of the 
evening in no very despondent mood. Nona had 
promised everything he asked of her, and all the 
rest seemed possible. 

He had some land and cattle on the San Marcos, 
and he purposed putting up a pretty house there 
gradually, mainly with his own hands. In two years 
he would sell some of his increase, furnish it, marry 
Nona, turn grazier, and run for the legislature. 
When he went back, he would “ make it all right ” 
with his uncle, and being so far apart, they could 
keep right ; and if not, and he lost his share of 
Jack Burleson’s estate, made money was better than 
given money, anyway. 

For a week after Dick’s departure the old man 
hoped against hope ; but one day, when Ike Bren- 


26 o 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


nan carelessly asked : “ When is Dick coming back 
from the West ? ” then he knew the lad had gone to 
shift for himself, and lonely as it left him, he 
thoroughly liked Dick for doing it. After this Ike 
and the judge spent much time together. They kept 
up a perpetual quarrel, but they were well matched, 
and after a year’s disputing, the victory on every 
single point was a disputed one. Sometimes, at the 
end of a long argument, and a long silence, the 
judge would say : “ Have you heard anything ? ” 
and then Ike, shaking his head, and shaking the 
ashes from his pipe, would rise and go away. 

Early in the second year the judge had an acci- 
dent that completely invalided him ; and after some 
months’ decline, he quietly passed away. Singularly 
enough, there was no will found, and Lyman Sneed 
took possession of everything. No Dick appeared 
to dispute his claim. Ike smoked away in his old, 
shady corner, and smiled queerly to himself when 
he saw how diligently Lyman began to improve the 
city lots, and how cleverly he collected and invested 
the outstanding accounts of the estate. 

In all things but one Lyman’s fortune prospered — 
Nona still refused all his attentions. But as soon 
as the judge was dead he began to use stronger 
means of persuasion. Nona’s father owed him a 
large sum, and their home was mortgaged for its 
payment. Lyman soon let father and daughter see 
on what terms only the Duval place could be saved ; 
and the father cared too much for his own indul- 
gence not to press with all his power so desirable a 
method of clearing off his liabilities, 


Ike Brennails Watch, 


261 


Nothing of this plan, however, came to Ike’s 
knowledge until one night old Duval, in a fit of 
maudlin intoxication, revealed it. Then he went 
home full of anxiety. He had no money that would 
touch Nona’s needs, and he had not yet heard any- 
thing from Dick. 

“ I’d give twenty of my best cows to know if the 
fellow is dead or alive,” he said, as he pushed open 
the latchless door of his log-cabin. A man was 
sitting in his own chair fast asleep. 

“ Dick at last 

One soul wakes another, and Dick opened his eyes 
wide and answered : 

‘‘ Here I am^ Ike I* 

“ You tormenting youngster, where have you 
been ?” 

Everywhere, Ike, and precious little luck either. 
At last I went to Yuba and Nevada, and tried hard 
to make my pile. Two months ago Jim Harrison 
strayed up there and told me Uncle was dead, and 
Nona. going to marry Lyman Sneed. I couldn’t 
stand that, and so I came along with what I had.” 

“ How much ?” 

Only eight thousand dollars.” 

“That’s enough. I guess you’ll find yourself 
richer than you think.” 

The next morning, Nona Duval completely 
amazed Lyman Sneed by entering his office accom- 
panied by Ike Brennan and paying in full every 
claim he had on the Duval place. But he was still 
more amazed by an official notice to meet, next day, 
the heirs of Jack Burleson and hear his will read. 


262 


Mrs. Bar7^'s Short Stories. 


He found at the place appointed Dick Burleson, 
Nona Duval, Ike Brennan, and three of the princi- 
pal citizens of the place. The will, leaving nearly 
everything to Dick, was without a flaw, Lyman sim- 
ply received one hundred dollars for every month 
during which he had taken care of the estate. 

“ He took very good care of it, gentlemen,” said 
Ike, “ just as good care as if he thought Dick would 
never come back. He has earned his money, you 
bet. But I’m glad my watch is over — very. I have 
been kept too wide awake for anything, between a 
pretty woman and a clever lawyer.” 



"SOLD FOR NAUGHT.” 


Under the shadow of the Westmoreland laburnum- 
trees, crowned with their golden wealth of blossoms, 
Eleanor Raby waited for her lover. Yet few would 
have guessed it, for on her face was the shadow of 
doubt and perplexity, instead of the light of love ; 
and her irresolute movements betrayed a heart ill at 
ease. 

** I am going to be a fool again," she murmured. 
“ And the worst of it is, I like the folly." 

And there were few girls who would not have 
liked “ the folly " represented by the handsome 
Antony Vaughan. Over the heathery hills she 
watched him coming now, his great black horse 
devouring the distance between them in long swing- 
ing strides, stopping neither “for break nor for 
stone," and taking the low garden wall in a well dis- 
tanced leap, which brought him almost to her side. 
Stately and handsome, brave and gentle, read in all 
the learning of the schools, what more did Eleanor 
want? All these “ availed him nothing," while his 
poverty sat like a Mordecai in the gate. And so she 
had determined that, sweet as these meetings were, 

[263] 


264 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


this should be the last ; for this woman had the 
nature of Dian in the form of Venus, and not for 
love was she going to sacrifice the more tangible 
benefits of gold and position. Still, with his arms 
around her, and whispered words of endearment 
trembling from his lips to hers, it was hard to tell 
him so. The intoxication of his presence made her, 
for a little while, obedient to the divinity within 
her ; but when he began to speak of a definite 
engagement and a certain marriage-day, however 
distant, she broke at once the spell which had held 
her passive in his embrace. 

“ The thing is impossible, Antony,” she said sadly, 
but decidedly. “We might starve, but we could 
not live decently on fifteen hundred a year. My 
father has more than double that, and he never is 
able to make both ends of the year agree comforta- 
bly. Fortune forbids our bans.” 

“ Oh, Nelly ! Nelly ! I begin to believe what 
Frank Foster told me — that you were going to 
marry that old lawyer who has bought poor Snow- 
don’s estates. Nelly, are you not going to deny it ? 
Speak quick ! It is not possible — it is not possible ! 
You cannot be so wicked and so cruel !” He held 
her hands tightly and looked fiercely into the fair, 
treacherous face. Little comfort there ; only a cold 
defiance that, like polished steel, flung him back to 
the passionate love and amazement that almost 
stabbed her like a wound. Once convinced of her 
falseness it was not in his nature to sue. This beau- 
tiful Judas had sold his and her own youth and 
hopes, and he would not again touch the hand 


Sold for Naught. 


265 


which had taken so foul a price. She was amazed 
and confounded. Of such love as this she had not 
dreamed. All her intentions of soothing the parting 
with kisses and promises of eternal friendship 
melted like snow in fire. He would none of them — 
would not take the proffered kiss, nor see the white, 
beseeching face, nor touch the outstretched hand 
He was gone, in a storm of outraged and indignant 
love, and Eleanor Raby knew very well that in that 
noble heart her image was evermore a fallen and a 
desecrated idol. 

How wretchedly now the long, hot summer days 
went by ! And in the midst of them Antony 
Vaughan disappeared from all his old haunts. 
Some said he had gone to India others to America ,* 
but all soon forgot him, except the cold, proud 
woman in whose memory he wandered like an 
uneasy ghost continually. 

Then, when the short, bright days of September 
came, the rich man who had bought Eleanor claimed 
his bargain and took it home to the little palace on 
Snowdon Heights. A bishop in lawn and silk 
ratified the transaction ; her parents made a great 
feast ; the world gave that assurance of approval 
which is powerful as the nod of Jove ; but her own 
heart whispered all the time, “ Thou fool !” 

And when the klat and excitement were all over, 
when life’s dull, common way and dreary intercourse 
— brightened by no stray sunbeam of love — lay 
stretched in wearying distance before her, how bit- 
terly she recalled the golden spring-time under the 
laburnums, when love glorified the meanest flower, 


266 


Afrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


and really “painted the lily and gave an added 
perfume to the violet.” 

For her husband she had no love, and with his 
pursuits no sympathy. He had been attracted to 
her by her great beauty, and had loved her at first 
with a strength of passion which she might by a 
little tact have made a firm and lasting affection ; 
but she had taken no pains to please him, made no 
efforts to retain his admiration, so she had no right 
to complain when time and possession robbed her of 
even this semblan(!e of devotion, and she under- 
stood herself as held “ something better than his 
dog, a little dearer than his horse.” 

And of Antony Vaughan no word or token came. 
The lands and home which had been his fathers’ for 
five hundred years were sold to strangers, and 
Eleanor’s heart lost its last hope — that of seeing him 
again. Time, which cares for none of these things, 
went on as if there were no breaking hearts, no 
ruined lives, and change and chance made and 
marred the happiness of millions whom he swept 
before him to their long home. I had only been a 
spectator in this little drama, and had simply 
watched it in that complaisant way in which we do 
watch sorrows that in no way affect us. But, 
strangely enough, the last act of it was played out 
in my presence, and I was compelled by circum- 
stances and sympathy to become one of the dramatis 
personos. And thus it happened. 

I was up among the mountains of the Colorado 
River in Texas, and our party, charmed by the ex- 
quisite scenery and strange and beautiful flora, ss3.n- 


Sold for Natight, 


267 


dered out of the proper trail. Sunset found us far 
from any human habitation, except a little log-cabin 
in the crevice of the hill half a mile below us. We 
supposed it to be the home of some freed negro, 
and descended to seek temporary rest and refresh- 
ment, purposing, as soon as the moon arose, to con- 
tinue our way to the little village, not over ten 
miles distant. The door was opened to receive us 
before we reached it, and the splendid-looking fellow 
leaning on his gun within its shadow was Antony 
Vaughan. I knew him at once ; every change was 
only an added grace ; he was ten times handsomer 
than when I saw him last, laughing and hallooing, 
head and shoulders higher than any squire who 
rode to cover in all the glens and glades of Snow- 
don. He gave us broiled venison, strong coffee and 
hot hoe-cakes, and a welcome which added no little 
zest to his hospitable provision. After supper, 
when a couple of pipes had soothed and quieted our 
noisy mirth, I intentionally called him by his name. 
He dropped his pipe in amazement, and looked the 
question he could not ask. Then I told him who I 
was, and spoke of the dear old town among the 
Westmoreland mountains. When bearded men 
weep, they need the ministry of angels ; no human 
sympathy can reach such sorrow, and so I was 
silent until he had conquered his emotion. He 
asked of every one’s welfare before he mentioned 
Eleanor, and then his voice was cold and indiffer- 
ent ; but his eyes contradicted his tongue, and his 
tongue belied his heart. I told him of all her cold, 
empty, neglected life, her faded beauty, and her 


268 


Mrs, Baj^rs Short Stories. 


listless, unhappy ways. And after a moment’s 
silence, during which he literally trembled with 
feeling, he muttered : “ Only just ! A life for a 

life ! Only just ! And yet, poor thing !” And 
then he rose hastily and calling his dogs — of which 
at least a dozen were lying around — he left the hut 
ostensibly to look after our horses. 

During the next year we spent much time to- 
gether, and I soon felt for him an affection “ pass- 
ing the love of woman.” He was, indeed, the idol 
of a large section of country, and the leader in all 
hunting and Indian expeditions ; for to these Ish- 
maelites of the frontier his very name had become a 
terror. Far as the eye could reach the land was all 
his own ; immense herds of cattle and cavallards of 
horses roamed over the hills, and the rich bottom- 
lands yielded him fabulous harvests of corn and 
cotton. 

“ How did you make all this wealth, Vaughan ?” 
I asked him one day. 

“ I didn’t make a dime of it. Jack. Fortune brings 
in some boats that are not steered, and she found 
mine drifting about and took charge of it, that’s 
all.” 

Then there was a pause. We were both thinking 
of Eleanor’s mistake. He was the first to speak. 

“ I am going to-morrow to hunt up the trail of 
some thieving Comanches who have run off twenty 
of my best mares ; like enough I may never come 
back again. If I am missing more than two days, 
hunt me up, old fellow, and bury me like a Chris- 
tian.” 


Sold for Naught, 


269 


He spoke half in jest and half in earnest, but an 
unaccountable presentiment of evil seized me, and 
I urged him to let me go with him. This he posi- 
tively declined, saying that I “ was not up to In- 
dians yet, and would only increase the danger.” 

So early the next morning he went over the hills, 
accompanied by a couple of fine hounds, and carry- 
ing his rifle, leaving me in the cabin alone. I was 
singularly nervous and restless ; and when, toward 
sunset, I saw a stranger climbing the road to our 
door, I was quite sure he was bringing bad news. 
What worse ? Poor Vaughan had been surprised 
and surrounded by Indians ; and though he had 
fought his way to the next house, he had arrived 
there in a dying condition. I found him lying on a 
mattress under some mulberry trees which shaded 
the house, bleeding from a dozen wounds. A 
negro woman and two or three rough but tender- 
hearted men were doing what they could to pro- 
long his quickly ebbing life ; but no hope nor 
rescue could now avail. The seal of death was on 
every feature. 

‘‘Don’t fret. Jack,” he said, almost cheerfully. 
“ There is really nothing, either in life or death, 
that’s worth a tear.” 

I did not need to speak to him of his affairs ; they 
had been arranged and explained to me long ago, 
for he was well aware in what constant danger he 
lived. Indeed, all care for or interest in his present 
life seemed to have vanished. He talked in a rapid, 
feverish manner of the past ; of his home and his 
dead mother ; of his friends and the pursuits of his 


270 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


youth ; but he never once named Eleanor, and I 
could not bring myself to introduce the subject at 
this hour. As the last tints of sunset faded in 
“ ashen skies,” he died, ejaculating almost with his 
last breath, and with a voice of glad surprise, the 
word “ Mother !” I had known his mother well ; 
a lovely little lady, who had idolized her son and 
been so tenderly beloved by him that many had not 
hesitated to attribute his exile and the sale of the 
old Vaughan Manor House to grief for her death. 

I assisted the negro woman to perform the last 
offices for him, and at sunrise a little gathering of 
rough men, whom he had led in many a wild and 
dangerous exploit, helped to lay him in his grave. 

He had left all that he possessed — gold, cattle 
and lands — to Eleanor, wife of Richard Crosby, of 
Snowdon Heights, Westmoreland ; and as soon as 
possible I returned to England to inform her of the 
bequest. 

I found her in a little breakfast parlor of the fine 
house for which she had sold herself. Her beauty 
was much faded, her dress slovenly and ungraceful. 
I introduced myself to her, and named a mutual 
friend at whose house we had often met. She con- 
descended to remember, and then looked at me for 
further information. 

I have just returned from Texas,” I continued, 
and then I paused to see if her heart would connect 
the country with her lover. 

“ Indeed !” she answered, quite calmly. “ A very 
unpleasant country, is it not ?” 

“ I hope you do not think so, for I am come to tell 


Sold for Naught. 


27J 


you that a friend has left you an immense estate 
there.” 

Into the white, passionless face a great tide of 
feeling rushed ; her eyes brightened with their old 
beauty. She stood up, and with parted lips waited 
for me to speak again. I remained silent, however, 
for a moment, and in that moment her heart awoke 
and whispered to her by what loss her gain was 
made. Then she sat down, and covering her face 
with her hands, cried out : “ Oh, my love ! my love ! 
After all these weary years — ” I tried to comfort 
her by telling of all his noble life — how he had suc- 
cored the sorrowful, and fought for the weak, and 
defended helpless women and children with his own 
life. 

“ And what matters it ?” she cried, in a wild pas- 
sion of regret. He has left me, who loved him so 
dearly, to suffer all these years, without a word of 
comfort or of hope.” 

But he has proved that he has never forgotten 
you.” 

“Yes ! Never forgot my most miserable folly 
and childish pride. See what he has done ! Given 
me gold, and denied me even a look, or a word of 
love or forgiveness ! His remembrance of me is the 
most profound cruelty. I will not touch a farthing 
of his wealth. I have bought it with years of misery 
and tears of blood. No, no ! I have gold enough, 
and to spare ; and what has it done for me ? Look 
at that helpless, paralyzed old man sitting in the 
sunshine ; he never says a kind word to me, and 
yet for him and his gold I surrendered the noble 


2J2 


Mrs. Barr^s Short Stories. 


heart and glorious beauty of Antony Vaughan. And 
you tell me he is dead ! What, then, remains for 
me ? Endless weeping. Leave me now. I will not 
speak another word to any one.” 

It was impossible to take this for answer, so the 
next day I called ag’ain ; but she was very ill, and 
could see no one. The following day I received the 
same answer, and her physician, to whom I spoke, 
thought it might be some time before she would be 
able to attend to any business. So I took a run 
“ over the border ” to Edinburgh, and remained 
there several days. On my return I went inimedi- 
ately to Snowdon Heights, and I met her funeral 
coming down the great avenue. Poor Eleanor ! 
The title deeds of her estate had proved to be her 
death-warrant. 



A YOUNG MAN SAVED. 


Julius May was a lawyer — that is, he was going to 
be one — if spending more or less hours every day in 
Reed & Tappen’s offices could produce the arranged- 
for result. At first the prospect had been pleasant 
enough to him, but a course of winter amusements in 
New York must have some effect upon a young 
man, and the effect in Mr. May’s case had not been, 
in a legal sense, satisfactory. 

Music and the drama, libraries bound in Russia, 
instead of calf ; fine ladies and fancy balls, London 
tailors and Fifth avenue boarding houses — these, 
and many other splendid things, had become very 
agreeable to the newly-fledged exquisite. But his 
little fortune was rapidly disappearing, and his 
little salary was so extremely small that it was 
scarcely worth counting as a means towards these 
desired results. 

What must he do ? He had asked himself this 
question almost every hour lately, and had never 
got but one answer — ‘‘ Marry !” At first he had met 
the suggestion with a negative shrug, and a mut- 
tered “ Nonsense !” but it had come back every 

[273] 



2 74 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


time with a more persuasive appearance. Finally, 
one cold, windy night in March, he determined to 
devote an hour or two to a consideration of his 
chances in the matrimonial market. 

After a careful and honest review, he was com- 
pelled to admit that among all the rich and splendid 
girls whom he had habitually spoken of as crazy 
about him, only two were likely to be crazy enough 
to entertain the thought of marrying him — pretty 
little Bessie Bell and the exceedingly clever Nora 
St. Clair. He was quite sure both of these lovely 
creatures adored him ; the only point to settle was 
which he liked better ; or rather, which it would be 
best for him personally and commercially to choose ; 
and — 

“ First he thought this. 

Then he thought that, 

Next he thought 
He didn’t know what.” 

Bessie was the only child of a rich widow, who 
lived in excellent style, and who was perfect mistress 
of her income. She was a sweet, dainty little 
blonde, always irreproachably stylish in dress, 
always ready to dimple into smiles, and never at a 
loss for just the most agreeable thing to say. 

Nora was a close friend of Bessie’s, but in all 
respects a contrast. She was no tenderly nurtured 
heiress, but a poor, brave girl, who had by the force 
of intellect, study and hard work gained an envi- 
able position in the literary world. Her income 
from her writings was very handsome ; she visited 
in the most aristocratic circles ; she was charming 


A Young Man Saved. 275 


in person and manners, and dressed like the rest 
of the fashionable world. But then Julius felt that 
in every sense she would not only be the “ better 
half,” but probably the “four-fourths of the house,” 
and that his personality would sink simply into 
“ Mrs. May’s husband.” 

So Bessie won the decision, and he determined 
if his new suit came home the next day, to offer 
Miss Bell the handsome person which it adorned. 
For, to tell the truth, he was a handsome fellow ; 
and if this work-a-day world had only been a great 
drawing-room, with theatrical alcoves and musical 
conservatories, why, then, Mr. Julius May would 
have been no undesirable companion through it. 

The new suit came home, and fitted perfectly, 
the tonsorial department was equally effective in 
results ; every precaution had been taken, and he 
felt an earnest of success in the very prosperity of 
these preliminaries. He rang at Mrs. Bell’s door ; 
before the footman could open it, a gentleman came 
quickly out, threw himself into Mrs. Bell’s carriage, 
and, in a voice of authority, ordered the coachman 
to drive to the wharf. 

The incident scarcely attracted his attention until, 
upon entering the parlor, he saw pretty Bessie 
watching the disappearing vehicle with tearful eyes. 
She glided into her usual beaming pretty manner, 
and very soon Mrs. Bell came in, and asked him to 
remain to dinner. 

After dinner, Mrs. Bell’s clergyman called about 
some of the church’s charities, and as the young 
people were singing, they went into the library to 


276 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


discuss them. Now was the golden moment, and 
Julius was not afraid to seize it. What do men say 
on such occasions ? 

Do they ever say what they intended ? Do they 
remember what they say? I don’t believe Julius 
did ; for before he had done — right in the middle of 
a most eloquent sentence — Bessie laid her hand on 
his with a frightened little movement, saying : 

“ Mr. May, please, sir, please do stop ! Surely 
you know that I have been engaged ever since I was 
eighteen to Professor Mark Tyler. Everybody 
knows it — we had a betrothal-party — he is just gone 
to Europe for six months, that is what I was crying 
about ; why, all our set know about it, though he 
has been away for nearly two years in the Rocky 
Mountains and California. Mamma said we were to 
wait until I was twenty-one, but I love him just the 
same — and I am quite sure I never did anything to 
make you think I could care for you in this way, 
Mr. May and Bessie looked just a little bit indig- 
nant. 

“ I have had the honor. Miss Bell, of being your 
escort all winter.” 

“ Oh, dear ! Did you think I was going to marry 
you for that ? In all our pleasant little dinners and 
drives and dances, is there matrimonial specula- 
tions ? That would indeed be dreadful !” 

She loved the professor too truly ; she had been 
simply pleasant and friendly to him as she had been 
to all her other gentlemen friends, who, however, 
had had too much sense and modesty to misconstrue 
her kindness. Then she walked to her pretty little 


A Young Man Saved. 


277 


aviary and began cooing to her birds. Julius hardly 
remembered what passed afterward, except that he 
received a cool, courteous “ Good-night, sir,” in 
answer to his “ Farewell,” and that he found him- 
self walking round Madison Square in a very unen- 
viable state of mind. 

To this speedily succeeded the thought of Nora ; 
he must see her to-night ; to-morrow Bessie would 
give her own version of his conduct, and then — well, 
he would not acknowledge that that could make any 
difference in Nora’s liking for him. “ And yet,” he 
murmured, “ women are such uncertain creatures.” 
Where his own interests were concerned, Julius was 
not wanting in a certain strength and decision of 
character, and in less than an hour after his rejec- 
tion by Bessie Bell he had so far composed and 
encouraged himself as to determine upon a visit to 
Nora, though whether he should offer himself to her 
or not was a point he left to the development of cir- 
cumstances. 

He found Nora at home, and, moreover, she 
seemed disposed to welcome him with extra cordial- 
ity. He noted with a fresh admiration the refined 
and cultured aspect of the room— the luxurious cop- 
ies of her favorite authors — the artists’ proofs of rare 
engravings — the blooming ferneries and flowers — 
the cosy student’s chair — the sofa, warm rugs and 
carpet — the dancing firelight — the rich silk and lace 
that robed the lithe, graceful figure of Nora — all 
these things had a fresh and delightful charm in 
them. In a little while he managed to make the 
conversation drift toward Bessie. 


278 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


Would she be married when the professor returned 
from Europe ? 

“ Oh, dear, no ; not till she is twenty-one.” 

“ Is it not rather a mesalliance T' 

Nora’s eyes grew dangerously bright. 

“ Certainly not. Professor Mark Tyler is a won- 
derful chemist and geologist — a man of world -wide 
fame. It is a great honor for Bessie to be loved by 
such a great soul.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! I had not thought of it in that 
light. People usually spoke of a mesalliance with 
regard to money affairs.” 

“ Yes, I know,” replied Nora, “ and just there 
they are frightfully wrong — there are worse mesal- 
liances than disparities in fortune — but, however, 
here there is none of any kind ; the professor has 
found chemistry a sufficiently rich alembic with a 
residuum admitting of no kind of doubt.” 

Will you be glad when she marries^” 

Very.” 

Yet you will lose 3^our friend ?” 

“ By no means. She will remain at home, and the 
professor and I are very old friends ; he knew me 
when I was a little girl.” 

“ Indeed ! Perhaps you may marry before Miss 
Bell.” 

“ I ma^’ do so. I have no specific against doing 
such a thing eventually ; but I am quite sure I sha’l 
not do so immediately.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because I cannot afford it. I am just one of 
those women who would be likely to make a mesalli- 


A Young Man Saved, 279 


ance — in money matters — and I repeat, I cannot afford 
it just yet. I have at present another extravagance 
before me, a great deal nicer than a husband.” 

“ I should like to know what it is.” 

“ A long European tour, with perhaps a peep at 
the Pyramids and a ramble about old Jerusalem.” 

“ Oh, dear !” said Julius, in atone half serious and 
half mocking. “ I should have no chance, I suppose, 
against such a temptation ?” 

“ None at all,” she said, positively ; and though 
she kept up the bantering tone, it was quite evident 
to Julius that if he asked her in sober earnest she 
would answer just the same with a slightly different 
accent. 

But Nora, with a woman’s ready tact, turned the 
conversation, and gradually led it into a very 
unusual and practical channel — the nobility and the 
necessity of labor. The glowing thoughts, the plain 
yet hopeful truths that fair young woman uttered, 
Julius heard for the first time in his life that night. 
Never before had he realized the profit and the deep 
delight which might spring — and only spring — from 
an honest career, no matter how humble or labori- 
ous, if it was steadily pursued until success crowned 
it. She hid none of her own early mistakes and 
struggles, and then, alluding to her assured position 
and comfort, asked Julius “how he supposed she 
had won it ?” 

“ By your genius S he said, admiringly. 

Not sOy sirjhuX by simple, persevering, conscien- 
tious labor in the path I had marked out for myself. 
Therefore,” she said, with a bright, imperative face. 


28 o 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories, 


“ go home to-night, Mr. May, choose what particular 
form of law you will study, throw yourself with all 
your capacities into that one subject, and success is 
sure to come. Depend upon it, the world is not far 
wrong in making success the test of merit.” 

“ You have made a new man of me. Miss St. Clair,” 
said Julius, enthusiastically. “ When I have proved 
this, may I come in to see you again ?” 

He had risen to go, and they stood with clasped 
hands — Then you fnay come againT Nothing more 
was said, but they quite understood each other, and 
Julius went out into the clear starlit night, deter- 
mined to make himself worthy of a good woman’s 
acceptance before he offered himself again. 

Next evening, Bessie and Nora sat in the firelight, 
sipping their after-dinner coffee ; it was an hour for 
confidence, and Bessie said, rather sadly : 

“ Poor Julius May — he asked me to marry him 
last night.” 

Nora turned quickly, but said nothing. 

“That is, he wanted to marry my money ; every- 
body knows that if he loves anybody really^ it is you, 
Nora.” 

“ He called on me, too, last night,” said Nora, 
“ and I saw he was in trouble, so I gave him some- 
thing to do. Nothing like that old, old gospel of 
Work when you’re in trouble. When he had done 
it, I told him he might come and see me again.” 

“ Surely you would never marry him ! You will 
just have him to dress and take care of.” 

“ All men need women to care for them ; else 
why were women made ? But 1 think Julius will do 


A Yotmg Mail Saved, 


281 


very well yet. These elegant carpet-knights some- 
times don armor and take the world by surprise.” 

“ Not much-lyg laughed Bessie. 

“ Remember how England’s ‘ curled darlings ’ 
stormed the Malakoff and battered down Sebastopol. 
I am going to trust Julius May for a year or two ; I 
think he’ll do.” 

“We shall see.” 

“ Yes, we shall see. Time proves all things. 

Time proved in this case what has often been 
asserted, “ that every woman influences every man she 
comes in contact with either for good or had” Julius went 
steadily to work, used with economy the remains of 
his patrimony, became known among lawyers as a 
hard-reading, clear-headed, steady young man, and 
in a little more than two years he ventured to call 
again on Nora St. Clair and ask her a certain ques- 
tion, to which she answered, with pride and confi- 
dence : “Yes.” 

Another evening Bessie and Nora sat sipping their 
coffee together in the gloaming of an early summer 
evening. 

“ Bessie,” said Nora, “ Julius May asked me last 
night to marry him.” 

Going to do so, Nora ?” 

“Yes, dear, I am going to take care of him, and 
he is going to take care of me.” 

“ That is ‘ all right,’ I suppose.” 

“ Yes. I am quite sure it couldn’t be better.” 

Both girls sat silent a while, and then Nora said, 
sadly : 

“ I have been wondering how many bad husbands 


282 


Mrs, Barrs Short Sto7nes, 


might have been, good ones, did women always use 
their influence for noble ends. There ought to be a 
saving power in love — if it is true love — and there is, 
for I have proved it ; and what I have done other 
women can do also.” 

God grant that in the larger liberty to which 
woman aspires, she may consider how vast a power 
is her influence, and use it only for gracious ends ! 



“ANYTHING FOR PEACE. 


Stephen Thirske was a genuine Yorkshireman, 
long-headed, shrewd and sturdy, serving Mammon 
with all his might in the great brick factory where 
he worked six hundred hands.” There everything 
went on so promptly and regularly that it was evi- 
dent one dominant will ruled. 

But no man is absolute ; and if Stephen ruled his 
six hundred hands ” like an autocrat, he shrunk at 
home into the obedient slave of one little, petted 
woman. Mrs. Thirske had been a great beauty, 
delicate and gentle. Stephen had begun his mar- 
ried life by a tender submission to the* frailty that 
was such a contrast to his own rude health, and now 
the little woman he could carry like a baby ruled 
him like a czarina. 

It was impossible to retrace the gradual steps by 
which this influence had been gained. Thirske was 
man enough to know that it was fatal to his home- 
happiness and his family’s welfare, and to make 
occasional determinations to reform things ; but as 
yet they had come to nothing. He could not bear 
his pretty Lydia’s tears ; and the man who would 
not tolerate the slightest opposition from the world, 

[283] 


284 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


sacrificed anything and everything in his home for 
peace. 

They had two children, a son and a daughter, and 
as they reached manhood and womanhood, the evils 
of a household under such unnatural control mani- 
fested themselves ; for if Mrs. Thirske ruled her 
husband, Antony and Ada ruled her. Ada was a 
beauty, and had not watched her mother’s tactics in 
vain. 

“ 1 shall rule George Aske as mother rules father,” 
she said, one night, to her brother, in reply to his 
assertion that George Aske would make her know 
her own mind better. 

“ Don’t you be too sure of that, Ada ; there are 
men, and men. I know no woman could manage 
me that way.” 

“ How does Mary Hutton manage you 1 Antony, 
you ought to be ashamed of yourself ! A poor 
governess !” 

“ I am not, though. Why should I not have my 
way as well as you and mother ? You are going to 
marry for position ; my way is to marry the girl I 
love.” 

“ Father will never consent, nor I either.” 

“ I don’t propose to ask your consent. I shall 
get mother on my side, and then father’s got to 
yield. As for you, Ada, I should not wonder if 
your own affairs will very soon keep your hands 
full enough.” 

“ It is not very brotherly to be looking for trouble 
to keep your sister’s hands full.” 

“ You are preparing it for yourself, Ada ; any one 


Anything for Peace, 


285 


is who determines to rule George Aske by petting 
and sulking. I saw his look the other night.” 

‘‘ Let him look — he yielded! ” 

“ He yielded then, but one hundred to one he 
does not yield two weeks longer.” 

“ Keep your opinion, Antony, but don’t bother 
mother with Mary Hutton until I am married. I 
don’t want her to be sick till my affairs are settled.” 

“ I am going to ask her to-night if you don’t 
want her to be sick, yon had better say a good word 
for Mary.” 

Ada was wise in her generation, and went right 
to Mrs. Thirske. 

“ Mother,” she said, ‘‘ Antony is coming to speak 
to you to-night about Mary Hutton. Don’t worry 
yourself — it is only one of his fancies. Just promise 
him all he wants until my wedding is comfortably 
over, then you can tell father and have a stop put 
to his nonsense.” 

“ Oh, dear me, Ada ! It does seem as if no one 
minded my feelings. You both know I must have 
peace, and yet I suppose I am to be worried into a 
fever about this Miss Hutton.” 

“ Well, mother, don’t make Antony angry to- 
night ; say enough to keep things smooth until next 
week is over. I don’t want him to be sulky at my 
wedding.” 

So, Antony found his mother in one of her 
gentlest moods. She listened patiently to his con- 
fession of love for his sister’s late governess, and 
answered : 

“ Have I not always wished to make you happy 


286 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


in your own way, Antony? If Miss Hutton is neces- 
sary to your happiness, why, I will speak to father 
about her after Ada’s wedding. It won’t do before 
it ; indeed, it won’t.” 

Antony was very grateful. Love is always hope- 
ful, and he went to see Mary that night, quite con- 
fident in his mother’s final success. A few days 
afterward Ada was married to the richest commoner 
in Airedale, and the presumptive heir of Towton 
baronetcy. AvSke was deeply enamored of her 
beauty, but by no means the man to be its slave. 
Many things rivaled Ada in his heart, even in the 
earliest days of her married life ; his estate, his 
hunters, county matters and politics. 

He was an English gentleman of the old school, 
and had no very exalted ideas of women, except as 
the mistresses of households and the mothers of 
children. Ada’s efforts to establish a female autoc- 
racy in Aske Hall soon came to disastrous failure. 
At first George pooh-poohed !” her orders and 
tried to laugh away her petting and tears. But he 
was not the man to put himself out of the way for an 
unreasonable woman, and even this concession was 
soon given up. 

In three months it had come to a simple announce- 
ment of his intentions and a perfect indifference as 
to how she accepted them. Thus he would say : 

“ Ada, I am going to meet the Towton hounds in 
the morning ; you had better go with me — a gallop 
will do you good.” 

But if Ada met the request with a negative of any 
kind, he accepted it without demur ; and if this pro- 


Anything for Peace. 


287 


duced tears or complaints, he generally began to 
whistle and left the room. This “ rudeness ” brought 
on passionate attacks of hysteria, and George went 
to the hunt and sent the family physician to watch 
her through them. 

Very soon poor Stephen had a double burden of 
household trouble to bear, Ada began to bring her 
wrongs and humiliations home, and Mrs. Thirske 
warmly espoused her cause. A complaining daugh- 
ter and a weeping wife were enough to make the 
most splendid house miserable, and they were but 
the elements out of which far greater troubles were 
to come. 

In the meantime Antony’s affairs were equally 
unsatisfactory. Mrs. Thirske had spoken to Stephen 
about Mary Hutton, and for the first time in her 
married life admitted a failure. Antony would not 
believe that she had done her best, and he forgot in 
this one denial the ninety-and-nine unreasonable 
favors she had before procured him. 

Stephen’s opposition to Miss Hutton was sulky 
and positive. He dared not, in the first place, dis- 
obey his wife’s orders to forbid the match. In the 
second, he was angry at the authors of this new ele- 
ment of discomfort in his home. In the third, he was 
not prepared financially to support another house- 
hold. Ada’s settlement had been a great drain upon 
his business ; he had had other losses, and another 
wedding and house-furnishing, with the increased 
allowance necessary to maintain it, were really 
beyond his present means. 

He was quite sensible of this last reason, but he ' 


288 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


did not want to admit it even to his wife and his son ; 
he sullenly and authoritatively forbade Antony to 
marry any one at present ; and for some months 
there was a growing feeling of anger between father 
and son. Then one day Antony left his home with- 
out a word of farewell, and Stephen, too proud and 
angry to seek after him, had to bear, in addition to 
his own sorrow and disappointment, the mother’s 
fretful reproaches and anxiety. 

The very day on which Antony left his home Ada 
returned to it. There had been between her and 
George Aske a wearisome succession of fierce dis- 
putes, and at length, in a moment of intense passion 
George had struck his wife. Mrs. Thirske was 
dumb before two such sorrows, and was really ill 
and Stephen was dangerously angry. 

Aske suffered three days to pass, and then sent 
for Ada. Ada refused to return, and Mrs. Thirske 
supported her in the refusal. In a week Aske’s 
messages became so insolent that Stephen was com- 
pelled to reply to them, and the poor father, against 
his sense of what was best for his child and himself, 
was forced into supporting the refractory wife. 
Intolerable words passed between the husband and 
the father, and when they next met they instantly 
gave each other the Yorkshireman’s warning — a 
word and a blow, and the blow first. 

After that it was open enmity, and Stephen was 
well aware that he was ill armed to fight so rich and 
so bitter an enemy. Aske’s revenge was a subtle 
one. He began within a week to build on the same 
stream as Stephen’s a much larger mill. Stephen 


Anything for Peace, 


289 


winced at the coming competition, but had not at 
first any idea of Aske’s real motive. When the mill 
w’as finished he “ loched ” the stream, and thus, as 
his mill stood higher up than Stephen’s, deprived 
him of water whenever he felt disposed to do so. 

** He had no right to do this.” Of course he had 
not. He knew that very well, and quite anticipated 
the lawsuit which would follow. But in the mean- 
time the Aske mill kept Stephen’s virtually idle, 
and Aske was making money enough to defray the 
expenses of the weary lawsuit which was fast 
crippling Stephen in all of his resources. 

Every one knew that Stephen was right, and at 
first he found many supporters. But it was Aske’s 
policy to wear out Thirske, and as month after 
month and year after year went on, and Stephen 
grew poorer and poorer, and more desperate and 
unreasonable, even his friends gladly seized the 
pretext of his imprudence to desert him. 

At the end of four years he was ruined, and the 
presence of the man’s wife who had ruined him, in 
his house, was no peculiar comfort. One night a 
strange longing for his son came over him ; he was 
in so much trouble that he could not put away his 
anxieties even to soothe Lydia, and leaving her and 
Ada to find what comfort they could in each other, 
he went to seek Mary Hutton. 

She still lived in a quiet street of small houses in 
the lower part of the town, and when she answered 
his request to speak to her, he was not astonished 
at Antony’s love. But it angered him nevertheless ; 


290 


Jlfrs. Barrs Short Stories, 


and though it was always hard for Stephen to be 
cross to a beautiful woman, he said, sharply : 

Where is my son, lass ?’* 

“ In New York, sir.” 

‘‘ What is he doing there ?” 

Making a home for me and my father, sir.” 

“ Write and bid him come to his own father. You 
may tell him I’m a ruined man — a ruined man, lass. 
You’ll make naught by marrying Antony Thirske 
now, Mary.” 

I am very sorry for you, Mr. Thirske. You may 
believe me or not ; and I will write and tell Antony 
what you say.” 

But before Antony could return things had come 
to a crisis with Stephen Thirske. He had won his 
case — and been ruined in the winning of it. He 
was a complete bankrupt, and mill and home went 
under the sheriff’s hammer. There may be places 
where three failures and a fire make a man’s 
fortune,” but it is not in Yorkshire. Even the per- 
sonal property of the unfortunate bankrupt was 
sold, and the ruined family were thankful to accept 
in the meantime the shelter of the governess’s little 
home. 

Now, however, that Stephen had met the worst 
and faced it, all his pluck returned. He easily got 
a position in a friend’s factory, and began to slowly 
gather around him again, the comforts of a much 
humbler home. A much happier one, though ; for 
these terrible changes had at length reversed the 
unnatural order of things. When Stephen was 
utterly bowed down, suddenly Lydia Thirske rose 


Anything for Peace, 


291 


lip, and took her true and natural position as com- 
forter and helpmate. It almost consoled the weary 
husband for all his losses to have found at last his 
true wife. 

Antony also had written loving and hopeful letters, 
and it was likely that he would be able to come for 
Mary the next summer. They were all sorry now 
to think of parting with her, for she had been so 
helpful and cheerful in these dark days that it was 
hard to imagine the cottage without her. 

Adversity has many learned disciples, and Ada 
had not been to its school without benefit. It 
was impossible for her not to reproach herself 
with her father’s ruin ; and though no one else had 
done it, the voice of society universally condemned 
her. She remembered, too, that however revenge- 
ful and hateful Aske had been, she herself had done 
her best to call forth those qualities — he had at first 
tried to be very patient and kind with her. 

One morning, as she was sitting sewing to some 
such bitter thoughts as these, she lifted a paper and 
read this paragraph : 

“ On Monday last, Aske, of Aske Hall, while hunt- 
ing with the Towton hounds, was thrown, and, it is 
feared, fatally injured.” 

She sat still thinking a few minutes, and then, 
without a word to anyone but Mary Hutton, left the 
house. Two hours afterward she was in Aske Hall, 
helping to soothe the ravings of its delirious master. 
Calmly but resolutely she took her place, and in the 
long, dreary weeks of watching and darkness that 
followed learned many a wholesome lesson. 


292 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


Her great fear now was that the injury to the 
brain was permanent, and that her husband would 
never know her long enough to pardon her. But 
one night, as she stood looking tenderly at the pale, 
shrunken face, he slowly opened his eyes, and said, 
in a whisper ; 

“ Ada !” 

George ! Dear George !" 

And the kiss that sealed her forgiveness was the 
re-marriage of their hearts and lives. 

But Aske was many months a helpless invalid ; 
and it was almost a year afterward that Ada was 
going gently about the room, packing things for a 
journey with him to the sunny skies of Italy. He 
watched her some time, and then said : 

Ada, I may never come back. I feel very weak. 
I wonder if your father would see me before I go.” 

The next morning Stephen Thirske stood by his 
enemy’s side, and his eyes were full of tears. 

You are much changed, George.” 

“ Yes, Thirske, you have won at last. Let us 
shake hands. The mill we fought about I have 
given to Ada, and she gives it to you. The papers 
are here ; I want to see them signed.” 

“ But, Aske — ” 

“ Don’t deny me this grace, Thirske ; if I have to 
die, I shall die the easier for it. If I live to come 
back, I want to come back among friends. It * is 
your own. No blessing has come to me since I 
built it.” 

So when Antony came to Mary he did not go back 
again. He joined his father in the Aske Mill, and in 


Anythhig for Peace, 


293 


ten years the firm of “ Thirske & Son ” were the 
leading manufacturers of Airedale again. 

There are evils that happen for good. Stephen 
and Ada found in poverty and anxiety the true re- 
lation of man and wife. Stephen never again said : 

Anything for peace and. Ada learned that it is 
b^ter to win a husband than to conquer him ; better 
to rule with him than to rule over him. 



“ Richard’s main fault is that he’s just good-for- 
nothing and Josiah Broadbent tapped the ashes 
out of his pipe in a very desponding way. 

“ I don’t believe that, Josiah. Nature does not 
put such a grand dome over a fine face for ‘ noth- 
ing.’ Richard has not had a fair trial ; that is all 
about it.” 

The subject of this conversation sat at an open 
window at the other end of the long parlors, and as 
the two older men looked toward him, he raised his 
eyes from the book in his hand, to follow the up- 
ward flight of a white-winged flock of pigeons. 
Rational, full, deep-set eyes, and a bright, keen 
face, surrounded by soft, light curly hair. Most 
people would have looked at such a face in a man 
with dim doubts and forebodings. His father did. 
Richard was a stray soul in a stray body in that 
plain, matter-of-fact family. None of the Broad- 
bents had ever been the least like him. Yeomen, 
.wool-staplers, spinners and weavers, great hard- 
headed, hard-fisted Yorkshiremen, what kin to 
them was this bright, clever youth, who looked like 
a knight just stepped out of a fairy book ? 

At first, Richard’s love of learning had rather 
[294] 


The Good-For-Nothing. 295 


amused his household. Old Josiah was not averse 
to seeing his son carry off all the honors of his 
school, and when people spoke of the lad's attain- 
ments and of the promising career before him, he 
thought, of course, they meant that Richard would 
greatly increase the business of Broadbent & Sons, 
and, perhaps, in the end, get into Parliament. 

But Richard showed no disposition for business, 
and after a year of fruitless and aggravating efforts 
to find something he could do in the works, the trial 
had been abandoned. His elder brothers, Stephen 
and Mark, were very fond of this lad, who was ten 
years younger than either of them, and whose 
beauty and bright ways had been their pride for 
twenty years. Indeed, Richard’s mother dying at 
his birth, these “ big brothers ” had adopted “ little 
Dick with all their hearts, and when he com- 
plained that the smell and noise of the works made 
him ill, Stephen had spoken very decidedly to his 
father about forcing the trial further. 

There’s plenty o’ brass i’ Deed’s Bank to keep 
him, father, an’ Mark an’ I can well fend for our- 
sel’s. Let the lad be. He’s none like us.” 

And Josiah, having also- a tender spot in his 
heart for his youngest son, had sighed, and then 
left Richard very much to his own devices. But 
every now and then he wanted his grumble about 
the lad’s shiftless, good-for-nothing ways, and this 
night he had had it to his chief friend, the Reverend 
Samuel Sorley, rector of his parish. 

Mr. Sorley knew Richard better than either his 


296 Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


father or brothers, and he was glad the subject had 
been opened. 

“ Josiah,” he said, gravely, “ tell Stephen and Mark 
that I want Richard for four years.’ You can give 
him a thousand pounds, or not, just as you trust me, 
but at the end of that time I think I’ll prove 
Richard Broadbent no fool.’* 

“ What wilt thou do wi’ him, Samuel ? Send him 
to Oxford ?” 

“Thou must ask no questions, Josiah. I’ll have 
the lad entirely at my own disposal.” 

Then the two men looked toward Richard again, 
but he had left his seat and was strolling ofiE toward 
Saurham Park. They walked to the window and 
watched him, and his father lifted the book he had 
laid down, and with a mixture of contempt and 
indignation threw it aside. 

At this moment Stephen Broadbent entered the 
room, and said, angrily : 

“Father, Dick is off to Saurham Wood again. 
I’m willing enou’ to let Dick play the fool i’ our 
house, but dang me if he shall meddle i’ t’ squire’s.” 

“ What does thou mean, Stephen ?” 

“ I mean that our Dick an’ Miss Saurham have 
gotten some love-nonsense together. I know it. 
I ’ll tell thee how : Jim Harkness, going home from 
t’ works, has seen them meet ivery night. Now, I 
ween’t have it.” 

Father and son were both equally angry and dis- 
tressed, but this circumstance so favored the rector’s 
proposition, that it was eagerly seconded by Stephen, 
and was regarded as settled. Then the rector put 


The Good-For-Nothing. 


297 


himself in Richard’s way and met him just at dark 
outside Saurham Park. He was a man accustomed 
to look well after his parishioners and their children, 
both temporally and spiritually, and therefore 
Richard was neither astonished nor offended when 
he said : 

“ Who have you been walking with, Dick ? Tell 
me the truth, my son.” 

“ With Agnes Saurham, sir.” 

The light of love was still in the young fellow’s 
face, and the rector could not help noticing how 
handsome he was. He did not say to him : You 
have no right, Richard — the young lady is far be- 
yond your station. You are going to make a deal 
of trouble,” and so on. On the contrary, he praised 
Agnes’s beauty and worth, and then showed him 
how lawfully the squire might refuse her hand to 
any man until he had done something to prove him- 
self worthy of it. 

“ What can I do, sir T* 

I will tell you, Richard.” 

And then the old man took the young one’s arm 
and talked so solemnly and so earnestly, that Richard 
caught his enthusiasm, and whatever Mr. Sorley’s 
plans were, he entered heartily into them. 

“ You shall have every help that money can give 
you, Richard ; only, mind, I will have no love- 
making, and your proceedings shall be kept a secret 
from all your friends. I don’t want Stephen and 
Mark running up to see you and meddling in my 
plans.” 

One thing Richard, however, insisted on : he must 


298 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories, 


see Agnes once more and tell her he was going 
away ; and Mr. Sorley agreed to this, on condition 
that he saw the squire also. The first interview 
was easy and satisfactory enough ; Agnes praised 
his ambition and genius, prophesied all sorts of 
honors to him and promised to wait faithfully for 
his return. Her father was a different person to 
manage, and Richard’s heart quaked as he entered 
the squire’s own peculiar parlor. It was a sunny 
room, littered with odds and ends of hunting and 
fishing matters ; and the squire was sitting on a big, 
old-fashioned sofa, playing with a couple of thorough- 
bred black English terriers. 

He said, frankly enough : 

Good-day, Richard Broadbent but he did not 
trouble himself to rise, for the Broadbents had been 
tenants of Saurham from the days of King Stephen. 
That in these cotton-spinning days they had grown 
rich did not alter their position at all in Squire 
Saurham’s eyes. Fifty years ago the great landed 
proprietor did not consider money as an equivalent 
for good birth ; so the squire treated Richard pretty 
much as he would have done a favorite servant. 

“ Miss Saurham says thou art going away, Richard. 
What for, lad ?” 

“ To study, sir.’* 

“ Yes, yes, ‘ When lands and money all are spent, 
then learning is most excellent.’ I have always 
heard that ; but, lad, thy father has money — why 
need thou go study?” 

“ Because, sir, I wish to make a great name, to 
become famous ; then, sir, perhaps, squire— then— ” 


The Good-For-Nothing, 


299 


“ The dickens ! Speak out, lad— then what ?” 

“Then, sir, perhaps you will permit me to tell 
you how dearly I love Miss Saurham.” 

“ No, Richard, I shall never allow anything of the 
kind. If 'twere not for old Josiah, I would say 
worse than this to thee. Come, Giddy! Come, 
Rattle ! We will go to the hay-field. I hope thy 
study, Richard, may teach thee to be more modest 
and sensible." 

Richard watched the sturdy figure in its green 
coat, white corduroys and buif top-boots across the 
lawn, and then, with a very angry feeling in his 
heart, left the hall. He disappeared soon afterward, 
and after a few desultory inquiries from various ac- 
quaintances he seemed to be forgotten. The 
Broad bent mills went on as usual. Josiah and 
Stephen and Mark passed to and from them as reg- 
ularly as if their life were ordered by machinery, 
and once a week the rector went up to their house, 
smoked a pipe with Josiah, and generally said, as he 
left : 

“ All is well with Richard, Josiah — very well 
indeed." 

In the fourth year of his absence there was much 
trouble between the mill-owners .and the operatives. 
The masters were everywhere threatened, and many 
mills were set on fire, and the excitement and terror 
were hardly allayed even when the prominent offen- 
ders had been imprisoned. Their trial was one that 
affected the interests of all manufacturing districts, 
and the spacious court-house was crowded. Josiah, 
of course, was present ; so were Mark and Stephen. 


300 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


Now, if there was anything these men had an 
almost idolatrous respect for, it was the parapher- 
nalia of the law. Those advocates in their black 
gowns, those grave men in their imposing wigs, 
those wise-looking, calf-bound volumes, the pomp 
and ceremony of the sheriffs, constables and criers 
were to them the most obvious representatives of 
the majesty of English law and power. 

Conceive, then, their amazement, when, prominent 
among these gowned advocates, giving directions to 
other lawyers, and demeaning himself as one having 
authority, was Richard Broadbent. Old Josiah 
flushed and trembled, and touched Stephen and 
Mark, who were also too much affected to do any- 
thing but gravely nod their heads. But when the 
arguments were over, and Richard Broadbent rose 
as special pleader in the matter, curiosity changed 
to amazement and amazement to enthusiasm. Such 
a speech had never been heard in West Riding 
before. It was cheered and cheered, till even 
Yorkshiremen's lungs were weary. 

The good rector had his reward when he stood 
beside his protege and saw the squire and the city 
magnates crowd round the brilliant young lawyer 
with their congral^ulations. But far greater was 
his joy when old Josiah and Stephen and Mark 
pressed forward with radiant faces and full hearts. 
They were not men given to speech, and the happy 
father could say nothing but : God bless thee, 

lad!” v/hile Stephen’s and Mark’s pride and love 
found its full expression in : “ Well, Dick! Dick !” 
But no words could have been more satisfactory. 


The Good-For-Nothing, 301 


The good-for-nothing had found his vocation. 
Two years after his departure from Leeds, he had 
been called to the bar at Gray’s Inn, and since then, 
by his tact and eloquence, had made himself one of 
the acknowledged leaders of the Oxford circuit. 

There was nothing now that his father and 
brothers would not have done for him, but he asked 
just the one thing Josiah was loth to move in : he 
wished him to speak to the squire about his daughter. 
Josiah promised, but he was thinking of deputing 
the business to the rector, when the way opened 
unexpectedly. Coming out of Leed’s Bank, he met 
the squire, who had a troubled, preoccupied look. He 
passed Josiah with a nod, then suddenly turned and, 
touching him, said : 

‘‘Josiah Broadbent, your house and mine have 
been long friends, eh ?” 

“ Say that, squire. Broadbents served Saurhams 
when King Stephen was fighting for the crown of 
England ; they are just as ready to serve them nowF 

“ I believe it, Josiah. I want four thousand 
pounds. My boy Roger has got into trouble. I 
would rather owe it to you than mortgage Saur- 
ham.” 

“Thou can’ have ten thousand pounds, twenty 
thousand, if thou need it, squire, an’ Josiah Broad- 
bent wants no security but Squire Saurham’s word 
— he wor a bad un if he did.” 

Then Josiah, standing there on Market street, laid 
his bank-book on a bale of wool, and signing a blank 
check, put it into the squire’s hand. 

The fewest words in such cases are best. With 


302 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


the tact of a true gentleman, he turned the conversa- 
tion to Josiah’s son, and finally, hesitating a little, 
said : 

There was some bit of youthful love-making 
between Richard and my Agnes ; thou didst not 
know it, belike, Josiah ?” 

“ Yes, that for he were sent away mainly ; but 
he’s as fond as iver about her. Thou mustn’t strive 
wi’ him, squire — love is beyond our ordering.” 

I had no thought of it now. Richard has proved 
his metal. You may tell him if Agnes says ‘Yes’ 
still, I’ll never be the one to say ‘No.’ ” 

“ Thank you, squire ; it is a great honor ; an’ if so 
be you’d niver name the money to the young uns, 
I’d tak’ it kind. That’s between us, squire ; I can’t 
draw a sword for you, as Rufus Broadbent did for 
the first squire of Saurham, but I can draw a check 
for you, and I’m proud and glad to do it.” 

As Richard had secured Agnes’s “Yes,” the 
future arrangements were easily settled, and within a 
year lovely Agnes Saurham became Richard Broad- 
bent’s wife, and the squire has had good cause to be 
proud of the alliance. Old Josiah also lived to see 
his son not only one of her majesty’s counsel, but 
also member of Parliament for his native city and a 
baron of the Court of Exchequer. 

Thus the good-for-nothing in a spinning-mill was 
good for an honorable and noble career in a court- 
room. Young men^ act out your genius j nothing else avails. 



THE PARENTS’ MISTAKE, 


Nature intended the face of Donald Houston for 
a handsome face ; but when I saw it, it was racked 
by fierce passions, and I thought it a very evil 
countenance. We were traveling from the Rio 
Grande back to the eastern settlements of Texas, 
and stopped one noon at a small village. 

Only a few cabins were in sight, but around one 
of them I noticed a very unusual number of horses 
tied. It was not altogether curiosity that led me to 
it ; I thought it probable that either sickness or an 
accident occasioned the gathering, and that the 
medicine-chest in our camp might be of service. 

But as soon as I entered the log-building, I knew 
no medicine could avail the still, covered figure 
lying upon the rude pine table. There was the 
sound of women crying in an inner room, and about 
a dozen men were standing around. One among 
them was Houston. He was taller, handsomer, 
stronger than any one present. Whatever an Indian 
knew of wood-craft or prairie-craft, he knew better ; 
whatever a white man knew about stock, horses and 
firearms, he knew with an added shrewdness that 

[303] 


304 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


made the superstitious frontiersman call him “ Don- 
ald the Terror.” 

Before I knew his history, I could see that some 
very unusual motive restrained these outspoken, 
reckless men both as to their actions and expres- 
sions ; and if among- the ignorant dwellers in lonely 
settlements there be any lingering belief in the 
influence of “ the evil eye ” I scarcely wondered. 
Never before, or since, have I seen such eyes as 
Houston's and such magnetizing and compelling 
glances. The bravest men there avoided them ; it 
was strange to see them one by one succumb to 
their power, grow nervous and restless, and under 
the pretext of “looking for the judge,*' wander out 
into the open air to free themselves, from their 
influence. 

Donald’s arms were tied behind him with a piece 
of raw-hide, and he stood at the end of the table 
looking up at his living companions, and down at 
his dead one, with a mocking sneer, and a defiant 
bearing I have no words to express. 

The judge delayed his coming ; they had been 
waiting his arrival three hours. The sympathetic 
excitement, which had called them together to hunt 
up and secure this red-handed murderer, was very 
fast evaporating. 

Donald watched the group outside gradually aug- 
menting, and probably he understood from their 
expressions and movements the tenor popular feel- 
ing was taking ; for he looked steadily at me, and 
fairly compelled me by a slight movement of his 
head to approach him. 


The Parents Mistake. 


305 


I stood in a moment by his side, leaning upon the 
table, and shuddering at the bloody, still heap upon 
it. He looked down into my face with a sort of 
suppressed scorn for my fear of him, and said, in a 
low but singularly persuasive voice : 

“ My knife is still in its sheath, over my right hip 
— draw it, it is sharp as death, cut my bonds and 
give me a chance for life. You are a woman, eh ?” 

I looked at the sheath. It was bloody ; the han- 
dle of the knife was thick with blood ; not for gold 
uncountable could I have touched it. I turned sick; 
he thought I was going to faint, and whispered 
fiercely : 

“ Don’t be a fool and a coward. Go into the next 
room and tell Ada to come here — quick !” 

This request I could obey. There were four 
women present — two of them in such grief that 
they were indifferent to my entrance : the others 
evinced no curiosity and but scant courtesy. 

Ada !” I said. 

A woman on a low pallet lifted a child-like, inno- 
cent little face, all swollen and discolored with 
weeping. 

“ Ada, some one wants you.” 

She rose immediately, and when I had again 
reached the outer room I saw her face almost touch- 
ing Donald’s, and the next moment she had drawn 
the knife and cut the rope. 

Donald had not judged wrongly. Not one man 
among the dozen was willing to take upon himself 
in cold cautious blood the responsibility of crossing 
fiim. With a triumphant laugh, he strode toward 


3 o 6 Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


some piled rifles, took one, put his knife between 
his teeth, untied a horse and deliberately mounted 
him. 

Good morning, comrades,” he said, replacing his 
knife in his belt ; “ when you have tried my case 
you can let me know your sentence. Ada, little 
woman, go home, and take his widow with you. I 
had naught against her — do you hear ?” 

“ I hear, Donald.” 

No one stopped him ; one or two even began to 
make an apology for interfering, which Donald cut 
short with a withering look of scorn ; and in half 
an hour the self-appointed jury were riding in twos 
and threes over the prairie in different directions. 

In the meantime Ada put on her sun-bonnet, and, 
after a whispered conversation with the widow of the 
murdered man, the woman mounted a mule and 
rode quickly away. Then two men moved the 
table with its dreadful burden into an outer shed, 
and a woman began to slice bacon and put some 
yams into the ashes to bake. 

The incident, though evidently not allowed to 
interfere greatly with the regular routine of daily 
life, had left with every one an unpleasant, unhappy 
feeling.. There was no civility to spare for strang- 
ers ; the little community wished to be left alone 
with its tragedy. Therefore, in spite of the increas- 
ing cold, we determined to push on to the next set- 
tlement. It proved to be a large farm, or ranch, 
with far more than usual attempts at comfort 
and even elegance ; and [our little party joyfully 
accepted the pleasant welcome, with its abundant 


The Parents Mistake, 


307 


supper-table and cheery, blazing fire of fragrant 
cedar boughs. 

Sitting around it after a refreshing meal, I related 
the incident of Donald Houston's escape. Our host 
started violently and heard me through with an 
anxious interest. When assured of his certain free- 
dom he gave a- sigh of relief and said : 

“ Oblige me by not mentioning this circumstance 
before my wife.” And then, after a painful pause : 
“ The poor misguided fellow married my little 
girl.” 

“ Is it possible ? How could you let her ?” 

“ I could not help it ; she loves him.” 

• “ But you will not now take her home again ?” 

“ You may think it strange, ma’am, but I say no. 
I would not ask her to leave him for the world ; it 
would be to shut the kingdom of Heaven forever 
against him. There’s good even in Donald Hous- 
ton, and if there is a woman in the world can touch 
that good, it is my little Ada. The fault with 
Donald Houston is, he had too much of his mother* s 
blessing y 

I looked incredulously at the speaker and touched 
tenderly the silky curls of the baby on my own knee. 

“ I mean what I say ; let me tell you how : 
Twenty-seven years ago there was a colony of 
Scotch shepherds settled in this county, and among 
them one called John Houston. Hitherto his wife 
and he had known only the hardest and barest exist- 
ences among the eternal mists and mountains of the 
Mull of Kintire. The rich land, the plenty and sun- 
shine, the great herds and rapid increase of wealth 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


308 


were like a fairy tale to them. They grew rapidly 
rich, and to crown their good fortune, they had a 
son. Six children they had had before, but all of 
them lay in the kirkyard of Macintyre ^ this one, 
however, was a fine boy, ^ warlike an’ lifelike,’ as the 
old man proudly said. 

‘‘ He grew up to be a very handsome little lad, 
and the father and mother fairly worshiped him. 
All that their own youths had wanted they crowded 
into his ; he never had a wish ungratified. This was 
not the worst part of his training ; he was allowed 
to rule the whole place, father, mother and servants, 
and having naturally a love for authority, he soon 
became a petty tyrant of the very worst description. 

‘‘As he grew up he chose his own companions, 
and they were just the ones he should not have 
chosen — wild, bad men, who courted him for his 
abundant pocket-money, and taught the beardless 
boy the most abandoned habits. Yet his wild name, 
his tyranny, his superiority in all deeds of sinful 
daring, rather delighted than alarmed the foolish 
couple. All their own youth had been passed in 
servile bondage to ‘ the laird and the gentry their 
Donald’s insubordination to all restraint was a visi- 
ble assurance that he at least was free from the 
social slavery of his ancestors. 

“ But the spirit of license, once let loose, is not 
easily bound. Donald having ruled at home, would 
not submit at school. He defied all his teachers, 
and absolutely refused to compass his father’s high- 
est ambition and study for one of the learned pro- 
fessions. Then at length John Houston, a dour, 


The Parents^ Mistake. 


309 


stiff-necked Highlandman, undertook to undo the 
long course of indulgence and disobedience. But 
the boy whom at six years of age he could have 
easily controlled, at sixteen defied him . 

“ Then there were quarrels which ^shocked every 
one, and almost broke the poor old mother’s heart, 
and the Houston family were at once the most pros- 
perous and the most miserable in the county. Finally, 
when General Walker went to Nicaragua, Donald 
insisted on raising a company and going too. In 
vain the old people scolded and lamented. Don- 
ald took what money he needed out of his father’s 
desk, left a note acknowledging the theft, and was 
gone. 

“ You could now imagine nothing more miserable 
than this lonely old couple. They blamed one 
another continually. Dame Houston said : ‘ The 

auld man’s fiiting and gibing had driven the puir 
laddie awa ’mong the savages ;’ and the old man 
said : ‘ The dame had spoiled him sae, that he was 

fit for nae ither company.* 

Months and months rolled awa}’', and they heard 
nothing from their runaway. It might be two years 
afterward that the house we lived in either took fire, 
or was set on fire. It was but a light structure — for 
we were slowly building this one when hands were 
idle — and I knew at once there was no hope of sav- 
ing it. The light, however, attracted a party camp- 
ing on the creek below, and they came up in a body 
to offer their help. Suddenly some one noticed that 
Ada, my eldest child, was not present, and I knew 
she must be in the blazing house. I failed to reach 


310 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


her, but a young man among the strangers brought 
both me and Ada out safe, though insensible. That 
man was Donald Houston. You have seen how 
handsome he is ; do you wonder now my little girl 
loved him ? 

“ He went home, but things did not improve. 
The father, all too late, had taken a certain stand : 
He would do nothing for Donald unless he gave 
certain pledges of good behavior, which the lad 
absolutely refused. Then he joined a tough set of 
Rio Grande traders. He made a good deal of 
money, married Ada, and settled down steadily, as I 
hoped, to sheep-raising. People generally, however, 
were against him ; he had a masterful way hard to 
bear, and was so passionate and quarrelsome no one 
cared to neighbor him.” 

** Perhaps,” I said, “ he may now go home to his 
father and mother for help and advice again.” 

I think not. If there are two people on earth 
that have not a particle of influence over him to-day, 
it is the father and the mother whom he ruled as a 
baby and bullied as a boy. He will come and see 
me to-morrow, and I shall have to send him across 
the river till this thing blows over.” 

“ It is a sad story,” I said ; and I could not help 
recalling, with a pitiful regret, the handsome, wilful 
criminal with his wealth of neglected and abused 
powers. But on I went in a few hours. It was 
hardly likely I should see or hear of Donald Hous- 
ton again. See him I never did ; but some time 
after, I met my host of a night on Broadway. For 
a moment I doubted the possibility, but the next the 


The Parents^ Mistake, 


311 


recognition was mutual. I suddenly remembered 
Donald Houston. 

“ Did he escape punishment ?” I asked. 

“ Well yes, in a way. It was a quarrel about some 
increase of stock. Harry Close — that was the mur- 
dered man — hadn’t a very honest name. Many 
thought Donald was in the right. We had an inves- 
tigation, and it was clear enough that either Donald 
or he had to go ; it was a fair fight between them — 
that is, if any fight is fair." 

“ Then he was what you call ‘ honorably 
acquitted.’" 

Well, the citizens didn’t see no call to send a 
good live man after a mean dead one." 

‘‘ Did he go over the Rio Grande at all ?" 

No — the accident kind of settled him. He took 
care of the widow and the children, and worked 
steady as long as most steady men worked. But 
when the drums began to beat, he was neither 
to hold nor to bind. He made a grand soldier ; his 
men would have followed him into a blazing battery. 
Poor fellow !’’ 

“ He was killed then ?" 

“ Yes, at Green’s Landing on the Red River. 1 
told Ada not to fret ; he was bound to die in some 
quarrel, and far better in Freedom’s than about 
some dirty dispute of cattle or dollars." 

“ Poor Ada !" 

Y es, my little girl fretted above a bit ; but she 
had done her duty ; her grief didn’t drive her any 
wrong road. It was different with the poor old 
mother.” 


312 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


Ah !” I said, inquiringly. 

She blamed herself for all his sins and troubles 
— right or wrong, she blamed herself — and between 
love and grief and remorse she — ” 

Broke her heart ?” 

“Worse than that, I think — she lost her reason.” 

“ And the father ?” 

“ Oh, he’s just as proud and dour as ever to folks ; 
but old Peter — that’s his favorite black servant — 
says he spends most of his time in prayer. Doubt- 
less he is better consoled than if he hung on to us.” 

“ It was a great mistake all through,” I said, sor- 
rowfully. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” he answered, decidedly, “ but the 
mistake began before Donald’s birth. If the parents 
had been trained in the way they should go as 
parents., they would have trained up the child in the 
way he should go from his babyhood.” 

“ Did he leave any child ?” 

“ Yes ; there is another Donald Houston in my 
house now, a noble little fellow. Please God, we will 
have no mistakes with him ; for, as I tell my little 
Ada every day, ^ make him mind the things that are 
right, Ada ; it is the good children that make the good 
men and 'woment ” 



THE RUINED HOUSE. 


Right or wrang, it is my house up to the roof.” 

The house in question was the grand old manor- 
house of Sweetheart, a gray, lichen-covered building 
of the days of the Plantagenets, and standing in its 
half-neglected beauty among stately old gardens 
full of perennial youth and loveliness. 

“ Right or wrang, it is my house up to the roof !” 

The speaker, an old, powerfully built man, 
repeated the assertion in a tone that might be only 
decisive, but which young Tom Sweetheart took to 
be extremely offensive. 

** You say so. Dykes. I only know that, as steward 
of Sweetheart, you have become a rich man, and 
that your master has just died, ruined and broken- 
hearted.” 

“He would moider his money away in daft-like 
speculations. He would not heed me. I wish he 
had.” 

“ And you say that he sold Sweetheart to you for 
forty thousand pounds sterling.” 

“Forty thousand pounds and other out-lying 
debts.” 


[313] 


3H 


Mrs, Barr s Short Stories, 


“ Well, then, let Sweetheart go. We are a bad lot, 
it seems.” 

With excepts. Master Tom. Your father was a 
weak man, and capped all for being shaffling and 
stubborn, but he was not to call bad — indeed, no ; 
and I liked him — loved him, I may say.” 

“ Then I hope. Dykes, that you will never love 
me.” 

“ No saying ; there are none to forbid it.” 

“You are a scoundrel, Dykes ; but ill* doing and 
ill-spending force me to deal with you. On what 
terms can I have Sweetheart back again ?” 

“ I’ll nivir refuse any sum that pays me for my 
outlay. I’m no just daft for Sweetheart ; there are 
bonnier bits of England than it is.” 

“You know. Dykes, you cannot buy with any 
money the old Sweetheart name and blood.” 

“ I’m not chaffering for them ; another bargain 
would suit me better.” 

Tom’s face grew dark as night, but there was 
something about Dykes’s calm, solemn manner that 
seemed to make anger ridiculous. Tom remained 
silent, until he could ask with patience : 

“ Is there anything that once belonged to Sweet- 
heart that is still mine ?” 

“ The twelve cottages in Whitehaven called Low- 
thers Row — they bring in about one hundred pounds 
a year.” 

“ Anything else ?” 

“That great ring on your finger.” 

“ Why did my father not give it away with the 
lands ? It came with them.” 


The Ruined House, 


315 


Dykes looked angrily up, and said : 

“ King Richard gave it to the first baron of Sweet- 
heart on the field of Ascalon. There was a Dykes, 
who saw it given. Launcelot Sweetheart, knight, 
and Jasper Dykes, his squire.” 

“ Oh, I know the old story. But what is the ring 
worth ?” 

Everything^ Master Tom ; for when all is not lost, 
all may be won back again ; but — ”and the old man 
bowed his head sadly — “ if honor is so far gone that 
you will sell your father’s gage, then all is gone, 
indeed.” 

Tom looked proudly at the great uncut sapphires, 
and said : 

Not so ; it is my gage to the old home. I’ll win 
it back, if fair fortune comes to fair endeavor. Nay, 
sooner than sell it, I would let you have it. Dykes ; 
for if you wronged my father, you are the first 
Dykes that ever wronged a Sweetheart in six hun- 
dred years !” The ring must finally go with the 
lands.” 

“ That is but fair. King Richard gave it as their 
arles money ; they should go together.” 

“ And I have one hundred pounds a year ! Well, 
that will start me in some new country.” 

‘‘What need to leave England? Your Uncle 
Peale will be proud enough of you. He has two 
thousand spinning jennies, and a grand fortune they 
have made him — 

“ ‘ When land and money all are spent, 

Then trading is most excellent’ 


3i6 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


Tom made no reply ; the idea was new to him, 
and he was impatient to end the interview. Dykes 
approached him with a strangely pathetic, yearning 
look and held out his hand. Tom shook his head. 

“ I can’t do it. Dykes. I see you are ashamed 
and sorry, but I can’t do it.” 

Not even for old times’ sake, Master Tom ? ” 

“ No, by George ! That makes all worse. When 
I was a lad we went all over the hills together, 
shooting and fishing, and I told you all my school 
and love scrapes, and thought there never was such 
a true, noble old fellow. It’s too bad — it’s too bad. 
Dykes ; but, indeed, I am sorrier for you than for 
myself to-day.” He went rapidly out of the room, 
but turned back a few minutes afterward to say : 

Never mind the Whitehaven cottages ; I will call 
and get Tatham to attend to them. The new 
master of Sweetheart cannot be the old one’s 
agent.” 

Dykes made no answer ; his arms were across 
the table and his head in them. Tom almost 
believed that he was crying, and for one moment 
was tempted to say a kinder farewell. But he did 
not, and on further reflection was glad he did not. 
Indeed, he rather congratulated himself upon the 
temperate way in which he had taken the shameful 
wrong done him ; for Tom, at this time, could 
imagine no circumstances in which it would have 
been right for such an old servant of Sweetheart to 
sit as master in its halls. 

Dykes’s suggestion, however, about his Uncle 
Peale appeared to be a good one, and he determined 


The Ruined Hotise, 


317 


to go to see him before he made any other move. 
What kind of a man he might be Tom had not the 
least idea, for in those days people did not distribute 
photographs broadcast, and a cotton-spinner was an 
unknown person in Tom’s little world. He found 
him a very imposing-looking man, tall, stout, blond, 
with his hands in his pockets and that air of “ What 
have I got to pay ? ” about him, so common to the 
rich Englishman. He looked indifferently at the 
tall, handsome fellow who lifted his hat and 
approached him until Tom, in his usual confident 
bonhomie^ said : 

“Good morning, uncle. How do you do ?” 

“ Eh ! By George ! Uncle ! Why, who are 
you ?” 

“ Tom Sweetheart.” 

“ God bless you, Tom. Why, I never thought of 
such a thing. You are welcome, sir ; very wel- 
come.” 

Tom indeed could not know how welcome, for the 
one bit of romance that Josiah Peale cherished was 
the memory of his love-match with the beautiful 
Mary Sweetheart, the late baron’s sister. Mary 
had lived only ten months after the marriage, and 
after her death and Josiah’s second marriage, the 
Sweethearts had quite ignored the temporary con- 
nection ; but still that ten months lay in Josiah’s 
memory like a charmed interval, love-laden and 
rose-colored. To have Mary’s nephew come smil- 
ing in and greet him as uncle was a real delight. 
He gave Tom both hands and took him home in a 
kind of triumph. 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories, 


318 


Mrs. Peale was equally ready to like such a cheery 
splendid -looking youth. Her own two daughters 
had been long married ; one was in Bradford, the 
other in Halifax. She was very glad of some new 
object in her monotonous life ; and very soon the 
stately house of the Peales began to be thrown open 
and to echo to the young, light footsteps and laugh, 
ter and song. 

Josiah, though very sensitive to the glory of his 
high mercantile position, had all the Englishman’s 
veneration for “ family his connection with the 
house of Sweetheart divided with his commercial 
success his proudest and deepest sentiments. When, 
therefore, after Tom had been a year in the mills, 
he added the old name of Sweetheart to the firm, he 
felt that everything had been done for the honor of 
the house of Peale that was possible. 

Nearly three years passed, and so happily that 
Tom began to forget his purpose, and to feel that 
ring on his finger a reproach. For he was spending 
all his income, and his uncle had frankly told him 
that a share in the firm was all that he could justly 
give him. One day, when he was very dissatisfied 
with himself, he thought he would go home and talk 
things freely over with his aunt. On entering her 
parlor he found it darkened, and she came forward 
with an imperative “ Hush r pointing to a couch 
whereon lay a beautiful girl in a, deep sleep. 

She has had an accident and a narcotic, and 
must not be awakened.” 

“ Who is she ?” 

“ Eleanor Broadbent,” 


The Ruined House, 


3^9 


How lovely she is ! Why is she here ?” 

“ She has been unexpectedly calling on me after 
her three years’ absence at school. Her horses took 
fright, she was thrown out and brought back here. 
Poor little Nellie !” 

Tom stood a moment looking at the exquisite 
face, the loosened glory of the rich brown hair, and 
the graceful girlish figure, and went out on tip- toe 
a completely enthralled and charmed man. Every 
meeting with Nellie made him more so, and being 
on terms of frankest confidence with his uncle, he 
very soon asked ‘‘ what chances there were in his 
favor ? Would his gentle blood stand for any- 
thing ?” 

“Not a farthing’s worth with old Broadbent. 
He came to Manchester without a crown, and con- 
siders the Mayor of Manchester quite as great a 
person as a royal duke.” 

“ And his daughter will have a great fortune ?” 

“ I don’t think she is his daughter ; seems to me 
her mother was Broadbent’s sister — but daughter or 
niece, it is all one, she will have everything. Not 
much chance there, Tom, unless you have money 
with your birth.” 

But for some reason best known to himself and 
his aunt, Tom thought differently. Mrs. Peale, 
indeed, laughed at her husband’s doubts, and 
thought “ Nellie Broadbent would choose for her- 
self.” Doubtless Mrs. Peale knew that she had 
reasons for her confident opinions. Anyway, Tom 
began now to seriously improve the business advan- 
tages his uncle had so generously opened to him ; 


320 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


and no sooner had he set his heart upon making 
money than everything set with him in the same 
direction. 

He got a letter from Tatham, of Whitehaven, 
offering to give him four thousand pounds for his 
cottages ; and before he could reply, Dykes, who had 
never noticed him since they parted, wrote and 
begged him on no account to sell just yet. The rail- 
way mania was just then beginning, and Josiah 
readily divined the cause of these letters. 

“ Some new company is needing your land, Tom. 
I’d do what Dykes says, for he is a shrewd scoun- 
drel ; and though I don’t see his drift, I think here 
you may safely follow his lead.” 

So Tom refused Tatham’s offer and very soon 
forgot it, for the frenzy, with Hudson as its leader, 
swept over England like an epidemic. Very few 
had strength to resist it, still fewer had wisdom to 
guide it for their own advantage. Old Broadbent 
made thousands and hundreds of thousands, and 
then lost every shilling. Josiah Peale stubbornly 
refused to touch a bond, but his influence and the 
fate of Nellie’s father hardly saved Tom. Some 
days he was almost ill-tempered with every one 
who said a prudent word to him. 

One morning he found among his letters one 
from Tatham, offering, in the names of the White- 
haven and Lancaster Railway Company, twenty 
thousand pounds for his cottages— the land on 
which they stood having become absolutely neces- 
sary for a depot. Tom asked thirty thousand 
pounds, and got it. Strangely enough, no sooner 


The Ruined House, 


I2i 


was the transaction completed than Dykes wrote, 
offering to sell Sweetheart back again for thirty 
thousand pounds. 

“ The old rascal has got the railway fever ; it 
will be your Nemesis, Tom. Will you accept his 
offer ? Don’t you think you could do better with 
the thirty thousand pounds ?” 

Tom hesitated, and his uncle watched him keenly. 
But it was only for a moment. His eyes fell upon 
the ring, and he said : 

“ It may be a foolish sentiment to you, uncle, but 
to me it is the redemption of my word and honor. 
I shall go and buy Sweetheart back to-morrow.” 

“ Good, lad ! You will be none the worse mer- 
chant for being a gentleman ; and they keep money 
best who keep truth and honor first. But why not 
go to-day ?” 

“ I must see Mr. Broadbent about Nellie ; they 
are in trouble, and Nellie will feel every hour’s 
delay a wrong.” 

“You will get nothing there now, lad.” 

“ All I want is Nellie. A gentleman values truth 
and honor and love above money, uncle.” 

Josiah laughed heartily. 

“ You have me there, Tom. Nellie is a good girl, 
and welcome to thee.” 

Mr. Broadbent’s losses had inclined him to listen 
respectfully to Tom’s offer. 

“ It is wonderful,” he replied, “ how often we lift 
the broken threads in life’s warp. Nellie is not my 
daughter ; she is my niece ; but no daughter could 


322 


Mrs, Barrs Short Stories. 


be dearer ; and she was born at Sweetheart. Now 
you ask her back there — it is strange enough." 

“ Nellie born at Sweetheart !" 

“ Yes. My sister married the steward. It was a 
very unhappy match ; but well let the past alone. 
She left him when her daughter was five years old 
and came to me. With all her faults she was my 
twin sister, and I loved her." 

Tom was almost staggered. He knew that 
Dykes’s wife had left him, and he had heard that 
Dykes had a daughter. But it was the one subject 
the steward allowed no one to speak about, and 
Tom never dreamed that Eleanor Broadbent could 
be that daughter. It cost him a few minutes fierce 
struggle to accept the circumstances, but he did it ; 
and, before he left Nellie that night, had taught 
himself to believe that the father’s debt was can- 
celed in the love and loveliness of the daughter. 

He went to Sweetheart next day, and found both 
house and garden in such beautiful keeping that he 
rejoiced over and over in the prospect of being its 
master again. Dykes offered him his hand as he 
dismounted at the garden gate, and this time Tom 
took it. The old man’s eyes were full of happy 
tears as he said : 

Thank God, you took my hand this time, sir." 

“ Yes, Dykes, and I have come back to ask you, 
also, for the hand of your daughter. I shall be a 
miserable baron of Sweetheart unless Eleanor 
Dykes is its lady." 

“ My daughter ! My daughter ! Oh, Master 
Tom, where is she ?" 


The Rtiiiied House, 


' 323 


Then Tom told Dykes all about his love, and this 
time the listener was eager as the lover ; before the 
sale of Sweetheart was mentioned Dykes and Tom 
were clasping each other’s hands and promising to 
be eternally true to each other. 

As soon as they were in the old parlor, Tom 
said : 

“ Now, father, I will buy back Sweetheart again.” 

“ My dear lad, it has never been really mine. I 
told you that Sweetheart was ruined that I might 
save you. It nearly broke my heart when you left 
me yon black day, and it has been no light thing to 
bear my neighbors’ ill-will and scorning ; but you’ll 
forgive me, Tom. I never would have been false, 
save that I might be the more true to you ; and I 
had your father’s blessing on the plan.” 

“ And your plan, my second father, has made a 
man of me, won me the dearest friends, and the best 
and loveliest of wives. I can make money as well 
as spend it now, and together we will make Sweet- 
heart the most beautiful barony in Cumberland.” 

“ For six hundred years there has always been a 
Dykes to stand by a Sweetheart.” 

“ And now always they will own Sweetheart 
together.” 

People call Tom a cotton lord, and men who 
stick to their lands and dignities affect to look down 
upon him. But to-day there is not a richer or 
happier man in the North Country, and in his vast 
works and enterprises thousands take their daily 
bread from his hands, and bless him as the best as 
well as the noblest of masters. 


324 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


Dykes and Uncle Josiah were equally proud of 
him, though sometimes they did not quite agree as 
to which of them had the greatest share in saving 
the ruined house of Sweetheart. 



“For Better, For Worse.” 


About three years ago I was one day sauntering 
in Union Square, and stopped in at Signor Roma’s 
studio. I found the young artist busily at work 
upon the likeness of a lady in crayons, and after 
our first cordial greeting, he returned to it, say- 
ing that he expected her that afternoon to examine 
his progress. 

I soon became interested in the growing face, not 
because of its beauty — for it was the face of a 
woman at least forty years old — but because of its 
singular repose, and the tender look of chastened 
suffering in the large, wide-open eyes. 

Roma,” I said, “ that is a very attractive face.” 

“ You should see the daughter of this woman. 
Ah ! she is an angel !” 

“lam speaking of the mother. I think her very 
lovely.” 

“ She has the loveliness of completed suffering ; 
her face is a history, not a calendar ; that is the 
secret of her attractiveness. Her daughter is a liv'- 
ing poem and a picture.” 


[325] 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


“ You speak like a lover.” 

“ I am one.” 

Does she know it ?” 

“ Who shall tell her ? I might as well love some 
bright, particular star and think to wed it, as love 
and hope to wed Pearl Bailey. She is Richard 
Lufkin’s heiress.” 

“ And you are — ” 

“ I am a poor artist. I make about three thousand 
dollars a year.” 

He dropped his head, and went on with his work 
in nervous haste. Presently I heard a rustle of silk, 
a sweet, low voice, and a little, rippling, musical 
laugh. Immediately Roma was at the door, and 
bowing low, as he held it open for the two ladies 
who entered. 

The elder was clothed in black silk, unrelieved by 
anything excepting a little foam of rich, white lace 
and the dull glitter of some jet ornaments. The 
younger had on a dress in which pale violet and 
cream color were exquisitely blended. The face of 
the elder was the face of one who had suffered and 
conquered ; the face of the younger was the face of 
a sinless, sorrowless child, who unsuspectingly had 
grown into womanhood. The mother’s hair was 
nearly white ; the daughter’s, a pale, golden frame 
to a little oval picture of exquisite beauty. 

I did not wonder when I saw the girl that Roma 
should feel utterly hopeless in regard to his love. 
But before their visit was over I had changed my 
opinion. I noticed Pearl’s shy glances at the hand- 
some artist and her bright, responsive blushes when- 


For Better, For Worse. 


327 


over Roma’s luminous eyes met hers. I saw, in fact, 
that Pearl was just as much in love as Roma was, and 
that all the two hearts wanted was one flash of intel- 
ligence to introduce them to each other. 

I became a visitor at Mrs. Bailey’s, but beyond a 
certain mental and artistic sympathy, our acquaint- 
ance did not ripen quickly. The "winter passed, and 
the summer sent one hither and another thither. I 
went to the seaside, Mrs. Bailey and Pearl to the moun- 
tains ; and being in town for a day in July, I found 
that Roma also had gone away. Under such cir- 
cumstances, many pleasant friendships are dropped 
and never gathered together again ; and I was 
almost in this danger with regard to Roma and the 
Baileys. The fact was, I was going to be married, 
and my mind was full of my own love affairs, with 
the attendant cares of upholstery and millinery. 

But one day, as I stood in front of a store, balanc- 
ing a certain point about silks in my mind, a gentle 
hand touched me and a pleasant voice said “ Goud- 
morning ” as frankly and quietly as if we had met 
but yesterday. It was Mrs. Bailey ; yes, it was she, 
though I might have passed her twenty times and 
not known her, so greatly was she changed. 

She looked as if ten years had dropped from her 
life, and had that indescribable air about her toilet 
which says : “ I dress for love, and not for fashion.” 

Another astonishment awaited me. A handsome 
man, who might be fifty years of age, ceased giving 
some directions to the coachman, and approached us. 
Mrs. Bailey, introduced him to me as “ Mr. Bailey, 
my husband,” and then, with a cordial invitation to 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


328 


call on them, she passed down the steps and into 
the waiting carriage. 

This was not the end of my perplexity, for I was 
certain I had seen Mr. Bailey before, and his grave 
sad face haunted me so persistently and worr^dngly 
that I threw aside my own interests awhile, and tried 
to remember when and where I had seen those 
pathetic eyes and that tall, noble figure. Somehow 
my mind would connect them with Roma’s studio ; 
but that, I soon concluded, was sheer nonsense^ 
With the exception of a few young artists and a few 
ragged, wretched-looking models, I had never met 
any men there. 

I suffered two or three days to elapse, and then 
went to call upon Mrs. Bailey. It was a cold, wet 
day, but Pearl and Roma were making sunshine for 
themselves in the usual sitting- parlor, and I was 
asked by a servant to see Mrs. Bailey in her own 
room. 

I followed her to a large upper chamber, luxuri- 
ously furnished, and Mrs. Bailey met me at the 
door. There was a little table spread before the 
fire, and as I do not pretend to be insensible to the 
comforts of good Soughong and cold chicken, I 
regarded the table with approbation. 

I do not know what influence of the dreary day 
or of the cosy room or of her own mind ruled her, 
but she was evidently inclined for confidential con- 
versation, and from one topic to another we fell 
gradually into those predisposing to personal mat- 
ters. As the twilight deepened we became more 
and more earnest and solemn, and I was scarcely 


For Better, For Worse.^* 


329 


astonished when, after some preliminaiy remarks, 
she told me her story. She said ; 

I was born in Boston, of an old and rich family. 
I do not remember my mother, and my father also 
died while I was very young, leaving me and my 
fortune to the care of my half-brother, Richard 
Lufkin. He was much older than I was, and, with 
loving and honest integrity, he strove to be both 
father and brother to me. 

“We loved each other dearly, and nothing dark- 
ened our affection, until I met and loved Philip 
Bailey. You see how handsome he is even yet ; 
judge, then, what he was twenty-four years ago. 
That he was extravagant did not alarm me. I 
thought myself able to control and reform all the 
weak points in his character ; and the fact that I 
was largely right in this supposition has been one of 
the bitterest drops in my cup of punishment and 
regret. 

“ For his nature was so noble, so responsive to 
good, so eager for some purer and higher pleasures 
than those which were deluding and destroying 
him, that I am quite sure, had I trusted to God and 
to my own highest instincts, I might have raised 
him even to his own high ideal. 

“ But we were no sooner married than trouble 
began. It was my fault. I was exacting to a ridicu- 
lous degree, jealous of every moment of Philip’s 
time, and would not suffer him to be absent from 
my side an hour in peace. Love soon frets at such 
authorative restraint ; quarrels and reconciliations 
followed each other quickly, and then, alas I 


330 


Mrs. Barr's Short Stories. 


quarrels when we made no apologies, and which 
were not followed by reconciliations. 

The home which we had furnished with such 
promises of a happy and peaceful life became a 
scene of constant bickering, recriminations, tears 
and complaints. All this began in such little things 
that I am ashamed to recall them. He was five 
minutes later than his promise ; he met an old 
friend and went to dine with him ; he forgot some 
compliment, or gave it pettishly when pettishly 
reminded of the omission — such trifles as these were 
the beginning of years of misery." 

“Such little things !" I exclaimed. 

“ Ah, my dear ! but they opened a wide door for 
far worse ones. By and by Philip began to stay 
hours behind his promise — to stay all night — to stay 
away with some old friend for days and weeks 
with-Dut any ceremony but the bare intimitation of 
his intentions. I rebelled, protested, scolded. He 
shrugged his shoulders, smiled — I remembered 
when too late, how wearily and sadly — and left me 
alone with my quarrelsome, unhappy temper. 

“ Children came to us, a beautiful boy and a pretty 
bright girl. Philip was very fond and proud of 
them, and strove hard to atone for his neglect. But 
instead of accepting the present love, I was contin- 
ually poisoning the happiest hour by regrets for the 
ones he had wasted, and by doubts of his future 
intentions. Believe me, dear, you may wear away 
a love as strong as death by such a course. So, 
Phillip, meeting no loving response, fell gradually 
back into his old habits and associations. 


For Better y For Worse. 


331 


“ Then money began to fail ; we became embar- 
rassed, and my brother refused us all further help. 
When this took place there was a bitter quarrel. 
My inheritance had been left in Richard’s absolute 
direction and disposal, and Philip began to doubt 
whether I had received my just rights. He 
talked of an investigation by the law. I went 
further : I passed my brother on the street, and 
forbade the little children, who loved him so dearly, 
to speak to him. 

“ At the end of five years we had to give up house- 
keeping and board. In another year we found it 
impossible any longer to preserve even the outward 
semblance of our former state, and Philip said we 
must go to New York. Even then, had I been 
patient and helpful, I might have saved myself and 
my husband, but, though I promised much, and he 
promised much, I could not subdue myself to con- 
quer his weakness by the humility of love. 

“ We left Boston clandestinely ; no friend wished 
us ^Godspeed,’ and my brother was still unreconciled. 
The little money we had soon evaporated in boarding 
houses ; we passed from one to another, always sink- 
ing a little lower, until at length a day came when 
we had neither money nor home — unless I could 
have made a home in the miserable, empty room 
which was now the only wretched flotsam of a 
wrecked life. 

I did not lack the energy and the ability to have 
done this, but I lacked the will. I sat gloomily 
down in tearless, sulking indifference, and scarcely 
heeded either the crying of my children or the 


332 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories. 


reproaches and promises of my husband. For he 
vowed, even then, he would abandon all his evil 
ways and work hard, if 1 would trust him once more. 
I can see him yet as he stood humbly before me. I 
just raised my eyes and glanced scornfully and in- 
credulously at him. 

“ He went angrily out, and did not return. Late at 
night, a note was brought me. It was Philip’s last 
word of regret and farewell. He begged my for- 
giveness for his share of my mistaken life, and, for 
the rest, he hoped I would go back to my brother 
Richard, to whom, he said, he had written in my 
behalf. 

“ That was all. I was really ill now — fell from 
one long faint into another ; and in the midst of my 
anguish Pearl came wailing into the world. For a 
long time I was quite dependant on the pity and 
charity of my poor neighbors ; and when at length 
I was able to rise and look the world in the face 
again, I scarcely knew which way to turn ; for my 
brother had been written to over and over, and no 
answer or help sent in response ; and either teach- 
ing or plain sewing was my only available resource. 

After many weary days I found a position as 
under music- teacher in a third-rate school. I only got 
a bare pittance for six hours’ labor a day, and had to 
give that up when little Phil and Rosa took the 
scarlet fever.” 

“ And they died ?” I asked. 

“ Both died within twelve hours of each other, 
and even little Pearl was long ill. In all those long 
hours, when I stood thinking and watching between 


For Better y For Worse. 


333 


two worlds, you may be sure my sins of every kind 
were brought to my remembrance. When I turned 
back from my childrens’ graves into the world 
again, I trust I turned back a different woman. I 
took up life’s hard task in a better spirit. 

“ One spring night I was taking Pearl a walk up 
Broadway, in order to let her see the bright lights 
and gay shop-windows. Suddenly a gentleman 
stepped before me, and laying his hand upon my 
shoulder, cried out : 

‘‘ ‘ Margaret ! Margaret !’ 

“ It was my brother Richard. He had come to 
New York immediately on receiving Philip’s last 
letter ; but Philip had either forgotten to put my 
address in it or had supposed I would go at once to 
Boston. He did not find me, though he had looked 
long and spent much money in seeking me. He 
had then returned to Boston, sought me there, and 
failing also, had come back to New York. 

“ Well, I never again knew what it was to have 
an ungratified want, or to miss a loving care for 
every hour. I hope, I believe, that I valued these 
blessings now at their true worth. Richard and I 
spent many happy years together, and for many of 
them made every effort to trace my lost husband. 
In whatever wild land hopeless men were wont to 
go, we advertised for him, but in vain. 

“So Pearl grew to womanhood, and we were 
happy. On her seventeenth birthday we deter- 
mined to have our pictures painted, and a chance 
remark sent us to Signor Roma’s studio, where I 
also met you. One day, just as we were leaving the 


334 


Mrs. Barrs Short Stories, 


city, we called there to ask him to visit us during 
the summer. He was busy on a historical painting, 
but as we entered, dismissed his model, and put 
aside his brushes. 

The model took his hat sadly up, bowed to 
Roma, and advanced to the door. As he passed us 
he glanced at Pearl, and being detected, made a 
movement of apology and went on. It was enough 
— I knew him. With a rapid movement, I placed 
myself before the door, and stretching out my arms, 
cried out passionately : 

“ ‘ Philip ! dear Philip, forgive me !’ 

“ Roma, with delicate devination and tact, with- 
drew Pearl to an inner painting-room ; and there, 
and so, we met and knew each other again.” 

“ He had suffered also 

Who can tell how much ? He had been in 
California ; he had been rich and became poor ; he 
had gained much and lost everything ; he had been 
in captivity to Indians and been shipwrecked ; he 
had known the extremes of poverty and sickness. 
When I found him he was earning a scanty living 
as a painter’s model, or in any of those ways which 
the humblest poverty alone discovers.” 

“ And now you are happy ?” 

“ Yes, indeed ! God has given me the oppor- 
tunity I have been praying long for. Yet, remember, 
because of my foolishness, I have begun to be happy 
twenty years too late.” 

“ About Pearl !” 

“ She knows all.” 

“ Are you pleased with her choice ?” 


For Better, For Worse. 


335 


“ Roma has given me back my husband. I may 
well give him in return my daughter. I am con- 
tent. 

And now, my dear, I have told you my story 
because I heard you are going to marry, and I 
feared perhaps you did not consider how holy and 
solemn a state it is.” 

I kissed her tenderly and went silently home. 
Henceforward I had higher thoughts about mar- 
riage than such as centered in upholstery and millin- 
ery matters. 


THE END, 


GLORIA 


31 JJootl. 

BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

Author of The Hidden Handf The Unloved Wifef 
Lilith f Unknown f Leap in the Darkf 

Nearest and Dearest f For Woman's 

Lovef The Lost Lady of Lonef 
David Lindsay f etc.; etc, 

% 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER, 


12mo. 848 Fagres. Handsomely Boiind in Oloth.. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


■ The heroine of this novel is one of the most interesting of Mrs. 
Southworth’s charming girls. She is almost as good as Capitola, 
the delightful madcap of “The Hidden Hand.” Her perfect 
naturalness and gayety are so winning that ho one can read her 
history without loving her. The story is full of the charm of 
unsophisticated girlhood and womanhood. We are not claiming 
too much when we say that Mrs. Southworth is one of the most 
engaging writers of fiction that this country has produced. Her 
novels have a larger circulation among the people than those 
of any other American writer. She has the gift of making her 
stories interesting, and filling them with pleasant incidents and 
characters, so that when the reader has finished one he wants 
to take up another. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


DAVID LINDSAY 


21 0fqu£l to “®loria.” 


BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

Author of The Hidden Handf ** The Unloved Wifef 
Lilith f Unknown^ A- Leap in the Darkf 
Nearest and Dearest f For Woman's 

Lovef ‘‘ The Lost Lady of Lonef 
Gloria f etc.^ etc* 


WITH JLLUSTBATIONS BY F. A. CARTER. 


12mo. *466 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 

In David Lindsay,” Mrs. Soiithworth has given a beautiful 
sequel to her charming novel ‘‘Gloria.” The characters are 
ripened by trial and experience, and the continuation of their 
history is full of engrossing interest. There are a greater variety 
of incident and richer growth of character in this novel than in 
“Gloria,” but the two should be read in connection in order 
fully to appreciate them both. The illustrations, by Mr. F. A. 
Carter, are admirable, and add much to the attractiveness of the 
book. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE CHAUTAUQUANS. 


BY 

JOHN HABBERTON, 

Author of Helen's Babies f etc. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WABBEN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 351 Fagres. Handsomely Botmd in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 

All interested in the famous Chautauquan reading-circles will 
welcome this novel. All who have been to Chautauqua will rec- 
ognize the perfect truth of the descriptions. The novel is an 
encyclopedia of information about getting up a Chautauqua 
circle. It tells in an amusing way the effect of starting a move- 
ment in a country village, and the enthusiasm which it arouses 
among young and old when once the organization gets into 
working order. Mr. Habberton is a veteran story-teller, and his 
new story is full of interest. There are in it many humorous and 
pathetic situations. The rich variety of characters in a typical 
American village affords the author a great opportunity for intro- 
ducing interesting portraits and sketches. Altogether the book 
is one of the most notable literary achievements which the Chau- 
tauqua movement has brought forth. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

CoR. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE CARLETONS. 


BY 

Robert Grant, 

Author of ** Afrs, Harold Staggf Confessions of a Frivolous 

Girlf etc, 

ILLUSTRATED BY WILSON DE MEZA. 

12mo. 309 Pag-es. lUtistrated. Handsomely Bound In Cloth, 

Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


In The Carletons ” Mr. Grant has given his admirers a fresh 
and delightful novel. It is a New England story and the char- 
acters are truthfully drawn. Boston is the scene of the principal 
transactions, although the story opens in a neighboring suburban 
town. The charm of the story is in the humorous delineation of 
New England family life. The children are interesting, and 
when they grow up into men and women, as they do in the 
progress of the story, they are more interesting and charming, 
and the reader takes a deep and abiding interest in their history 
to the close. Mr. Grant’s amusing and refreshing humor lights 
up every page of the book. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


The Breach of Custom 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 


BY 

Mrs. D. M. Lowrey 


WITH CHOICE ILLUSTRATIONS BY O. W. SIMONS. 


Paper Cover, 60 Cents. Bound Volume, $1.00. 


This is a translarion of an interesting and beautiful German 
novel, introducing an artist and his family, and dealing with the 
most pathetic circumstances and situations. The heroine is an 
ideal character. Her self-sacrifice is noble and exalted, and the 
influence which radiates from her is pure and ennobling. Every 
one who reads this book will feel that it is one which will be a 
life influence. F ew German stories have more movement or are 
more interesting. There are great variety and charm in the 
characters and situations. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 
price by 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, Publishers, 

182 William Street, New York, 


.WIFE AND WOMAN; 

OR, 

A TANGLED SKEIN. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 

L. Haidheim. 

By MARY J. SAFFORD- 

WITK ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER, ' 

12mo. Beautifully Ultistrated. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, 
Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


** A thoroughly good society novel.” This is the verdict of a 
bright woman after reading this story. It belongs to the Marlitt 
school of society novels, and the author is a favored contributor 
to the best periodicals of Germany. It has a good plot, an 
abundance of incident, very well drawn characters and a good 
ending. There is no more delightful story for a summer holiday. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

CoR. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


MRS. HAROLD STAGG 


A NOVEL. ; 

i 

BY 

Robert Grant, 

Author of ^^Jack Hall,” etc. 


Beautifully Ulustrated by Harry C. Edwards. Paper Cover, 50 
Cents. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. 


This is a brilliant novel, in which the author has given a free 
rein to his undoubted faculty for social satire. Mrs. Harold 
Stagg is a capital portraiture whose prototype may be found in 
the drawing-rooms of New York, Boston and Newport. The 
story is told with the amusing and quiet cleverness which has 
I made the author’s reputation, and contains many striking ideas 
‘which will cause Society’s backbone to creep. Like “ The Anglo- 
maniacs,” it places its heroine under a cross-fire from a wealthy 
swell and a talented youth to fame and fortune unknown — a 
situation which allows Mr. Grant an opportunity to exhibit a 
^very interesting and unselfish type of the young American 
woman. In despite of the satire of which Mrs. Harold Stagg is 
the object, every man will like that lady for herself, even though 
he may not be as blindly devoted as her husband. 


THE LITTLE COUNTESS. 

BY 

E. VON DINCKLAGE, 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 


By S. E. BOGGS. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS, 


12mo. 818 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in doth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 

“ The Little Countess” is a delightful novel. It is full of life 
and movement, and, in this respect, is superior to most transla- 
tions from the German. It is distinctly a story to be read for 
pure enjoyment. The little countess belongs to an ancient and 
noble family. She is left an orphan in a lonely old castle, with a 
few servants and pets. Her heroic temper sustains her in every 
trial. The part played by an American girl in the story is very 
amusing, and shows what queer ideas are entertained of American 
women by some German novelists. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


' ^ REUNITED. 

A STORY OF ‘ THE CIVIL WAR. 


BY A POPULAR SOUTHERN AUTHOR. 


Illustrated by F. A. Carter. 


Handsomely Decorated Paper Cover, Price, 60 Cents. Bound 
in Cloth, Price, $1.00. 


This is a splendid novel of the late War. It deals with the 
armies and their operations on both sides and shows the feelings 
of brothers who crossed swords in the conflict. The main theatre 
of the incidents is the State of Kentucky and the famous blue- 
grass region celebrated for its beautiful women, its fine horses 
and its more widely known Bourbon whiskey. There is a brisk 
movement in the novel, in keeping with scouting, marching and 
cavalry charging. The author was a soldier, and he has crowded 
his pages with adventures and stories of camp-life, which have 
great interest, and charm one by their truth to nature. Rarely 
has any great crisis produced more heroic spirits than the War 
for the Union. They fought and bled on both sides of the line, 
and this novel commemorates their valor, and shows how true 
hearts were reunited at the end of the struggle, and that peace 
brought more than mere cessation from strife. This is a novel 
which appeals to every one. 


BERYL’S HUSBAND 


BY 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 

Author of Lady Kildare, Sundered Hearts,** ** Hef 
Double Life,** etc. 


WITH NUMEROUS NULL-PAOM ILLUSTRATIONS BY O. A, TRAVBR. 


Paper Cover, 60 cents. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. 


A very charming story. It opens on the shores of Lake Leman, 
in the romantic city of Geneva, under the shadow of Mont Blanc. 
A young English girl, who has been educated at a boarding- 
school at Vevay, is suddenly left without natural guardians and 
means of support. Her beauty and interesting character attract 
a young English traveller, who induces her to run away with him 
and marry him. This is the beginning of a romantic novel of 
extraordinary vicissitudes and adventures. To give an analysis 
of the plot and situations would mar the interest of the reader. 
It is sufficient to say that it is equal to the best of Mrs. Lewis’s 
novels, not excepting ‘‘Her Double Life” and “Lady Kildare.” 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


“A GOOD FRENCH NOVEL.” 


MADEMOISELLE DESROCHES 


BY 

Andre Theuriet, 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 


By META DE VERE- 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRY 0. EDWARDS. 


12mo. 820 Fagres. niustrated. Handsomely Bound in Cloth) 

Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Andre Theuriet is a name well known to readers of choice 
fiction. Her novels occupy a high place in modern French 
literature. Many of them have been translated and published 
here, but this one, so far as we can ascertain, is entirely new. 
It is the story of a French physician’s daughter brought up by a 
French peasant family, whose good sense and delicacy of feeling 
are strengthened by a simple country life. Her subsequent his- 
tory is full of interest, and shows how closely character and truth 
and romance are related. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York 


A CAPITAL AMERICAN STORY. 


UNDER A CLOUD. 

BY JEAN KATE LUDLUM, 

Author of Under Oathf etc. 


ILLUSTRATED BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 300 Pag^es. With NxomeroTis BlTistratlons. Handsomely 
Bound in Cloth, Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


It was once asked by a celebrated Englishman : .‘‘Who reads 
an American Book?” The question is no longer a conundrum. 
American books are the popular reading of the present day. 
“ Under a Cloud” is a spirited and pathetic account of the trials 
of a New York lady, who, in consequence of a promise wrung 
from her by her father, is put into relations with her husband 
which are almost unprecedented. The chain of circumstances 
by which the husband is implicated in a crime and the heroic 
efforts of the wife to traverse this chain and unravel the mystery 
make a history of overpowering interest. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. Wiluam and Spruce Streets, New York, 


THE 


IMPROVISATORE; 


OR, 

LIFE IN ITALY. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH OF 

Hans Christian Andersen, 

By MARY HOWITT. 

ILLUSTRATED BY BARRY O, EDWARDS, 


12mo. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is an entrancing romance dealing with the classic scenes 
of Italy. To those who desire to behold with their own eyes 
those scenes, it will create a fresh spring of sentiment, and fill 
them with unspeakable longing. To those who have visited the 
fair and memory-haunted towers and towns of Florence, Rome 
and Naples, it will revive their enthusiasm and refresh their 
knowledge. Andersen published this novel immediately after 
his return from Italy, and it created an extraordinary effect. 
Those who had depreciated the author’s talent came forward 
voluntarily and offered him their homage. It is a work of such 
singular originality and beauty that no analysis or description 
could do it justice, and the universal admiration which it at once 
excited has caused it to be read and reread throughout the world. ' 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Coil. William and Sprvqe Streets, New York. 


A NEW NOVEL 

By the Popular Author, Mrs. Amelia E. Barr. 

A Cheap Edition: Price, 50 Cents. 


THE BEADS OF TASMER. 

BY 

MRS. AMELIA E. BARR. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 395 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in English Cloth. Uniform 
with “A Matter of Millions” and “The Forsaken Inn,” By 
Anna Katharine Green. Price, $1.25. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


The Beads of Tastner,” by Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, is a power- 
ful and interesting story of Scotch life. The singular and stren- 
uous ambition which a combination of ancient pride and modern 
greed inspires ; the loveliness of the Scotch maidens, both High- 
landers and Lowlanders ; the deep religious nature of the people ; 
the intense manifestation of these characteristic traits by Scotch 
lovers of high and low degree ; the picturesque life of the coun- 
try, involving the strangest vicissitudes of fortune and the exhibi- 
tion of the most loving and loyal devotion, constitute a theme 
which is of the highest intrinsic interest, and which is developed 
by the accomplished authoress with consummate art and irresist- 
ible power. The Beads of Tasmer ” is certainly one of Mrs. 
Barr’s very best works, and we shall be much mistaken if it does 
not take high rank among the most successful novels of the 
century. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


EUGENIE GRANDET 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 


Honore De Balzac. 

mTH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAQAN, 


12mo. Botmd in Cloth, $1*00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


‘‘Eugenie Grandet” is one of the greatest of novels. It is the 
history of a good woman. Every student of French is familiar 
with it, and an opportunity is now afforded to read it in a good 
English translation. The lesson of the book is the hideousness 
of the passion of the miser. Eugenie’s father is possessed by it 
in a degree of intensity probably unknown in America, and to 
our public it will come as a revelation. What terrible suffering 
he inflicts upon his family by his ferocious economy and unscru- 
pulousness only Balzac’s matchless narrative could show. The 
beautiful nature of Eugenie shines like a meteor against the black 
background, and her self-sacrifice, her sufferings and her superb 
strength of character are wrought out, and the story brought to a 
climax, with the finest intellectual and literary power and dis- 
crimination. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Insignificant Woman 

51 0tor^ of 5lrtist £ife. 


BY 

W. Heimburg. 

, TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 

v» 

Fy MARY STUART SMITH- 

WITIT ILLUSTRATIONS RY WARRRN B. BA VIS. 

12mo. Beautifully Illustrated. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, 
Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is a matchless story. It is a vindication of woman. It 
ends finely, so as to bring out beautifully the glorious character 
of the heroine, the insignificant woman. The combination of 
the artistic and practical in this story makes it peculiarly suited 
to the taste of our times. It is impossible to imagine more 
beautiful and effective lessons of magnanimity and forbearance, 
strength and gentleness, than are inculcated in this novel. 
Every woman who lives for her children, her husband and her 
home will find her heart mirrored in the pages of this fascinating 
story. It is told in a manner that must please all readers, and is 
exquisitely rendered in the translation. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


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